The cold metallic clang of lockers is like the way these kids treat each other.

The scratch of judgment crawling on the skin of everyone as they move down the halls,

leaving the taste of soap on your tongue.

 The smell of frankincense and our lingering around those few chosen kids, who are royalty, levying unfair taxes on the masses. Their status is worn like armor, protecting their fragile egos from the outside world.

If you turn your hope on high, you will see the glittery bright future ahead of you yet, if you look underneath the peace you see the slow churning of doubt and despair in every one of us. Behind the thin linen curtain that separates our image from our outside, there is the same ball of playdough, wanting to be molded into something concrete, firm and unmoving.