Here's one of the poems I needed to write for school purposes.

Halls

A rush of air,
Like a window had been left open
But a rush of students instead,
Trying to get to class.

Where everyone is in the halls,
It is like a river
All going some where with the currant
But suddenly the river drains
As the final bell sounds
And the students sit in class

Ah, but where the halls are flowing,
You hear many sounds too.
All together like the roar of a waterfall,
But each conversation;
Each stream is different.
From gossip to “happy B-day!”
All is heard here.

One of the things in these halls I hate,
The flow of the water fountain’s drink,
Through my lips,
Like a warm, tasteless substance
Flowing some where ungrateful
For its presence.

But—
Every time the halls are full,
Every time they are empty,
They are so uniform—
So, on a schedule.
It is almost TOO perfect
Like a clean piece of paper
But, much is unrealized
That disrupts this paper
Like the every-once-in-a-while
Shouts or odd smells
That is what makes the halls…
…Unique.