Boredom
I would run to my mother's room,
Where she lay in her bed,
Reading another smutty book
Some typical hunky man
Giving it to some cock hungry bitch.
I would report my boredom
And she would inevitably reply
That only those who were boring
Become bored.
The idea of being a boring person
Disgusted me,
So I will rarely say,
That I am bored.
Managing to not be bored
Can be a difficult thing
In a world of shimmering lack luster
So after hours of reading
Hours of solitaire
Some wins, some losses
Losing interest in music
Despising the emptiness
Of the over information
Spewing forth from the internet
Smoking cigarette after needless
Cigarette, down to the filter;
Not because I need it,
Because I need it,
I decide that the rest of
My second pot of coffee
Can wait until morning,
My first cup stale, but ready
Ready and waiting.
I draw a bath,
Decrease the ratio
Of hot to cold,
And I sit, quiet
And I ruminate,
And I marinate,
Squeeze a little shampoo
Into my wrinkled palm
It's pink,
And I wonder why.
Because I am a woman
And women are to like the color
Because it is the color of their pussies
Against the dark of the still
Bathroom night,
An albino spider crawls
Up and down again
In the streetlight
That is impeded by
Frosted glass
I start to think of
Grover.
Furry lovable old Grover.
The monster at the end of the book
The monster we're all approaching,
That we can't stop going towards,
That is closer with every step,
Every turn of the page,
That awaits at the end
Furry lovable and old
But a monster nonetheless
And monster's are meant to be terrifying.
