D'rather be gone

This room doesn't feel like anything and it doesn't want to be written about.
The tubby screen-eyed boys clog the room's veins and fuck the air with their outrage over sonic walls and codes.
I leave the room for air and sit down on cracked pavement, waiting to be whisked home. Instead i see every banged dusty beige car in New York parked in front of me, and the awkward old shave-headed librarian in white trainers with her Monty Burns posture.
I weigh the pros and cons of adopting the devil may care picnic table hopping persona, boldly sitting at them all sans invitation.
I watch the school's neurotic green lover take her duck steps, waddling after a soccer ball.
then i look down at my own feet, cut up from forty block walks, somehow still standing in the worlds dirt, where everyone walks.
and still no bus.