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Bus people really have a lot of time to think.. Weary, they are always on the brink of knowing what's it's all about. Bumping, heaving, sleeve-to-sleeving their way to work. Yearning to be back in bed, learning they are spiritually dead.. And all
Between the World and Me It’s a long ride Home from school It’s a long walk
A Brooklyn bus is always the same, Bubblegum under seats, Crossed legs blonde in front of you
Wind rushes by, Nary a cloud in the sky, I’m going home. Day’s been long, But I love this song, I’m going home. An hour or so, Just part of the flow, I’m going home.
Years has is it become Seeing eye to eye But very words Gave thrills and shrills To both, separated By approx. of 618.6 km And taking a 8 hour long travel Reaching by 7 in the morn
Today, a girl has sat next to my seat.She we
The darkness outside shines in through the lining of windows The humid air smells of hard work The quick flash of a cell phone, a camera Lighting up the merry faces of battle-worm winners.
Favorite song is my saving grace Laptop that I purchased fails
Everyday I ride the bus I sit behind a petite blonde girl Her freshly straightened hair glistens in the sunlight through tinted windows And her perfume is breath taking, some sort of magical peach aroma
Tomato cheeks, Sparking hair, disarrayed cloth, empty chair, young cold, filing lines, full chair, similar voice, no face, one blue sky, pairs of shoes,
Your name was actually
The bus clanks and shudders along the broken roads; My pencil jerks from my hand, And the broken roads are mirrored in line breaking My page with its marred stroke. My eraser jumps across the page as I erase
I left my house unaware, Ignorant of watch and clock. Fleeing my home with uncombed hair, I saw it pass the block. I saw the streak of orange yellow, 10 seconds and 30 feet ahead,
I used to endure the bus alone. Leather seats towered over me as I huddled in the corner, as close to the window as possible. I stared at the scenes traveling past the glass,
They smile and they giggle And the back is filled with bumps. His hands on the the wheels and each turn is smooth as silk. It weaves a brilliant spiderweb Through the mornings, after school.
The bus windows lets me stare at all those people that give no care. Why should I stand when I pay the same fare? We live here too, it's not your lair.
tired of giving in not standing, she made a stand never forget Rosa
In a bus, in the city of Montgomery, A woman came aboard. Little did anyone know at the time, That this woman would change the world.