nobody knows who you are.

nobody knows who you are. your frames as shiny as a new penny, the lenses as thick as a dictionary. nobody watches you, you walk down the endless hallway clutching your books like a child's blanket to your heart. none of the passerbys are kind. out of their blood-red lips, hateful words spill out of their mouths like water from a faucet's edge. fingers rise up from hands, your head pounds as if it's about to explode from the pressure, like hot lava that pulses before it releases from stress,

and still nobody knows who you are.