He missed sitting on his desk alone at the back heedy from a creative trip,thats the only way he could explain that particular experience
And for however long it took,could be a month,a few days or 5 minutes – he would be consumed by an idea so much so he would follow it through building it,expanding it,exploiting and twisting it to fit a bigger purpose.
He would tear the paper with words sharpened from days filled with homesickness,frustration and anger added with a copious amount of libido just waiting for some kind of release.No
not that kind of release.
Said release came in form of rhythm and poetry.Sometimes it would be a mixture of both.

He wrote with the feverish manner of a mad scientist,mumbling and nodding his head while he hummed a couple freestyle verses while playing a tune that he came up with from somewhere in the many folds of his mind more often than not,he would also play an instrument to accompany it.
Nobody would be there to witness this for another few years to come – running across his face would be emotions he had struggled to conceal.I guess as he wrote his music he completely gave into himself; in a studio with his boys,his equipment,his words,his voice and his ganja.But even with all that it was never about him,he made his art for the world-saying he was only a vessel meant to pass on a message.
Of all the times to remember he recalled knowing whatever he was writing would be banging in his classmates heads for days to come because it just simply slapped that hard…yeah this could definately be a hit.

For soul as talented as that he didn’t consider himself not too popular even though he fairly stood slightly apart from the rest of the hoard.
He considered other peoples lives more interesting ,like his best friend who’s politically driven family was more mafia than the mafia or his other friend who was effortlessly charming he always had something to say,his wit and pun game too strong it got them reluctant admiration from the deputy principal.Who by the way studiously avoided being on any agreeing terms with any of the students that didn’t end up with someone being punished.
He also knew that that was only a front.
A jokers’ bane of existence is his depression.
The world is a tragedy and humor is a coping strategy.
Nostalgia hit as he reminisced back when he stood in line with his shirt semi-tucked,thoughts of a lesson he wished he could duck and a biology assignment that was due-lord he was so fucked.
A girl he liked way too much and his homies endless taunts when he wrote romantic stuff.
Someone copying his english homework,another one paying him to write a love letter to his crush,getting caught sleeping during a history paper and ulitimately becoming a trendsetter.

Author: Suave savage

Sometimes i read posts and think 'Now why didn't i think to write that?' and manage to maintain a hate-love-ship with the writer and the article respectively.Also,I seem to write a lot about writing

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