Creative Writing: American High School

I, standing in the corridor, arms hot
with fewer eyes aligned on me than thoughts, 
think of the building racket while I pause:
how do they live like this, and do I live
if living is like this? Answer: no shit. 
No one is happy here until the mass
has chosen someone not to be. That’s that,
and what is not is not to be –at all
invited round the crackpipe afterschool. 
Nor shall they reach the faces of their friends
distorted in some sport of now and then,
the girls becoming, somehow, more mature
the more the lads succumb the less to thought. 
Flex in a corridor. See what happens, after all, 
to those who try and don’t succeed to pull. 
You will know, and then go on, perhaps,
to burn the following horror through your synapse:
it wasn’t all that bad. I moan and write
because I realise now I’d rather like
and dislike whole crowds than be this alone. 
School closes like a portculace behind you
and the shops open for you. Hours pass
like blinders pulling up a shocked carcass.
Is this what you wanted? Of course, it’s not,
and it is –a suitable way out now 
the ball has rolled from fulfillment at that age
like a solar head into a latter day grave.