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.