Street writer (part four)



Once primary school was over we move on to secondary school…

While I was in primary school I was dedicated to my kickboxing outside of school… then when I entered secondary school I was dedicated to my skateboarding!

I loved English class and art… not so much out loud; more deep down.

Like a teenager’s secret for constant sex.

I knew there was something there, but I wasn’t quite sure what!

I wrote some short stories in English class when we were given the assignments during class.

I remember one of them was about two different characters called: super cheesy man and liquid man…

One obviously was a man size Wotsit and the other was a long drop of rain.

I think they both had some kind of device to kill the bad guys, but I don’t remember now what they were.

I used to sketch drawings every week for art class and I always got a high mark, but there was one piece I did, it was a radioactive vase and I was really proud of that one.

I wish I still had it, like the drawing an ex-girlfriend gave to me after 2 days of knowing each other.

But… the problem with me was: the teachers.

They were never encouraging!

My English teacher was a complete bitch and just knocked me down every time I made a mistake instead of helping me.

The art teacher wasn’t so bad.

You see, most artists and writers are never encouraged from the start by the people that could help them to get their work into the right places, with the right people and through the right channels.

To me… that’s a fucking shame!

This should be encouraged; especially from youth.

It wasn’t until I went into my last two years of secondary school doing my G.C.S.E’S when that all changed!

I needed to do double award science to get into the course I wanted to do in college, so I asked the vice principle if I could move up a class to do it.

She could see I was studying hard and agreed.

By this time my days of skating with my boys were over. I was boxing and wrestling by this time and lifting weights and running long distance.

I was introduced to my new class and my new English teacher.

For those two years he really encouraged me with my writing.

Basically; he helped me to learn words and string a sentence together and helped me to structure it and end up with a fully developed story.

I owe him a lot, because he took the time to help me out!

He was disappointed when I only got a C in my exam.

He did tell me to send it back, but I never bothered.

He wanted me to, because I got the highest score in our oral exam.

But I did get him a gift for all his help and I think he was a little embarrassed about it.

I did talk to him a few years ago and gave him a copy of one of my crappy poetry books and I told him to give me a shout back and tell me what he thought.

That book was SHIT and I never heard from him, but he did say: you did something I never did!

Like a lot of teachers and journalists never do.

That’s another fucking shame!


I read a lot in those last two years of school and I was training like a mad man and kept expanding physically and mentally.

My lifelong friend who used to sit behind me in geography class said to me: it just looks like your school uniform is painted on you.

Girls looking to see my abs and biceps, but of course I never gave in.

It was a private matter for me!

They say: school is the best days of your life!


And I still do.

Being amongst real life has been my best days.

More on that later!

That was my secondary school experiences and when I moved onto college… things really did change for me back then as a writer…



Paul Butterfield Jr


Is he still winning


He used to go around school

Slapping people with his dick


He won at everything


He was a great athlete

A great skater

Also a great artist


He smoked a lot of pot

Even took a pinch in a ham sandwich

At a long distanced run


But I refused that day

And I came in third


The last time I saw him

He was drinking outside of a bar

He was a tattoo artist

With a bald head


That was quite a few years ago


And I wonder

Is he still winning


While my luck is only starting

Writing poetry

In an early frost

In autumn






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