mata ne
(there's more to this place than I thought)

upon entering, so many thingsā€”I have lost
now preparing to take my leave, I wonder what is it that I have gained?
friendship? None. Knowledge? Hardly any. Joy? Certainly not
for I've learned of only deceit, hatred, and ways to cause the most crippling pain.

this place is messed up, surely not any less when I spit at it
yet here I am, walking the length of this much dreaded hallway
for once, I wrack my brain to think of something I'd miss
what will I see years from now, reflecting back upon my younger days?

"It's a quest for the self," they'd say with glee I can't resonate
I didn't know being plunged into uncertainty has anything to do with figuring out identity
"It's the beauty of youth and of great rebellions," they'd state
ahh, from the way I see it, it's integrity and justice they are against, blindfolded by this corrupted sense of community.

a well-hidden circus, everything here is also a contest
they steal, they talk back, wreck havok simply by adding spice to falsely woven tales
dressing up, they enthusiastically waltz in to see who does it best
looking in the mirror, aah, it looks like I'm donning a mask as well.

certainly I didn't get stuff, but even so this place still takes from me so much
tomorrow is my last day, what is it that I can possibly do
to remember this place, one to which my heart has remained shut?
to not let these faces fade, to treasure what is left before all breaks loose?


when the day comes, there rings a sorrowful note on my omnipresent cheerful mask
soon I hear nothing but the sound of my pen on scrolls
for once, words flow for them, unaware yet ready for the aftermath
and I realize pieces of my heart slowly open, each and everytime I have their autograph books closed.


the Coming of Age night starts, a bit slowlier, my heart beats
and as it proceeds, I feel even deeper the heart sinks,
aah, after all this time, am I finally feeling sad for it,
for the time that has been lost, now to lose once again everything?


here I am, 3am., fooling myself once again, busying myself with my sketchbook
rereading their words, remembering the tears that trigger pain
my brain mushy, my eyes droopy, yet my hand moves steadily on the raw page of my book
whispering words I never thought would be uttered, over and over, "Till we meet again."