Back then, it sucked,

but wasn't it just too funny?

Stalker Steve and

whiny Tuesdays

with girls on heroin in the bathrooms.

 

In our forced confines

we created something unique,

characters that can and

can't be replaced.

 

Then, like a bag too full of marbles

a rip disguised

as a gymnasium and hallway,

led us to the 'outside';

 

we are dispersed,

cast aside as delicately

as if a child had dropped us all

down million flights of stairs.

 

Is that child I see myself?

the one we left behind?

Or simply the one that allowed us to go rolling off,

occasionally colliding with one another

once again?

 

We rose, and

were released

but still inside the confines

we wonder what became of them,

in the bigger plot

of land,

 

what flower did they bloom,

and how unique can they be,  

within the forced confines?