I drive in a small bus,
Not a 'special-needs' bus,
Not a 'handycaped' bus,
And most of all not the vague-ideas-you-have-about-the-average-person-whos-in-it bus.

My bus drivers name is Karl,
he has a large sticker over his head
that says:


My name is:

K a r l

He speeds,
but I _dont_ really care.
When its a nice day,
Karl opens the windows,
I stick my head out and bring it back in just before an on comming car hits me.

Sometimes I wish one might,
It would end much better that way.
Better then having the respect of a curly-fry,
Better then being visually assaulted by the un-knowing,
Better then being saddened for being the way you simply are.

One day, When snow flakes did fall from the sky,
Karl stoped the bus to look around,
A snow ball hit the window with a sudden


I looked at my window,
it smashed in a way that I cannot describe,
it smashed what little hope I had left in humanity.
It smashed my mind, body, and soul.

Karl frowned,
and pull away,
I knew he was as much of an empty shell as me.

I dont want to hear about your pain,
I have enough of my own on my small bus.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.