Every day is a child

with thunder shaming fingertips;

 the messy musings through the tedium of algebra.

The red anchors clog up the grooves where kicks

are sped by popularity,

sometimes the stomach ache is real and comes at the end of the day,

but more often it is chewed up over reddi brek.

I find premature history

when I feel my wooly hat

amongst the commuters:

when did I grow up?

My homework is rather taxing now.