May. 03, 2004 @ 9:55 a.m.

Decorated figure eights are dancing circles around the sleeping boredom in my eyes. The words coming out of his mouth are meshing together like flour and water in some kind of fancy mixing bowl for my thoughts. This bowl of thoughts cost me little from a thrift store but the knowledge that I've already found on my own are costing me thousands. My opinions hold no water even though I feel as if they are the most mineral-enriched of the class. My mind keeps jumping out of this sixth floor window that I sit next to. I can see it smashing onto the ground with everyone staring as it gets up and dashes for expanded freedom as the people down there turn to stare in awe at the sprint that follows that six story fall. My mind feels that impressive some days, and on others it feels like it's wasting away with a fat, tattooed mind inside of a one-window, sixteen foot square, cold, concrete room. As it lies on a plastic vinyl cot, placed perfectly off-centered, all it can dream of is also jumping out that window to the freedom below. Sometimes school is my Alcatraz.