En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Young Couples With Sagging Eyelids

'Beat boredom out with more boredom, '
She says, grinning—then vomits in her hands.
He wonders why, but never understands.

She thinks she's been living her life post-mortem.
She hates her coffin's fluffy decorum,
And wonders why he won't dig up her grave.
She says she deserves heaven, 'She behaves, '
But she's been buried in place where she stands.

He is uneasy, but doesn't complain.
He watches her decay in the marrow.
She has thinning blood, a festering brain,
But so does he. He doesn't notice though.

Like a dripping nose, they've become crusted;
They're so full of snot and maladjusted.

poem by Tim Stensloff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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BOREDOM in retrospective shades

It mostly rained mid afternoon

Pressed against the window

Dark dreary

Feeling nothing

Listless sad damp saturdays

Curtained off from the day

And sunless

Full of football league results

And muttered conversations over steaming tea

Football saturdays full of rain and nothing

With winter pressing in like night

Midday and waiting

For the boredom to sink in!

The hot cat slinks in

Lazy in summer pose

Limbs stretched over half read papers

Leaving pawprints across the broad sheet in repose

Forgotten bodies lie abandoned on the lawn

Waiting for post mortem

All thoughts of tomorrow suspended

The ice cream thawing slowly the thermostat is blown

Who wants to know about the weather?

There in the graveyard for the idle

Birds have nested made their home

Boredom

Belongs to the masses

The dissatisfied 'writer'

Of romances

And pulp ficition

The lottery winner who has it all?

[and ponders nothing]

To the factory and office worker

The bodies moving between

Shifts of day and night

To the old and lonely

But never to the child?

The cat is curious

The dog indifferent

The mouse is sly

And boredom comes to us all

Don't ask me why?

So many catch the train

So many rush on buses

Complain in queues

Push for seats

disconnect the senses

To the ipod and the phone

Leave their thoughts

of love and life behind

But take their boredom home!

yvette m smith poet of uk

july 09

poem by Yvette Smith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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War is Boredom

War is Boredom

War is Boredom

War can be defined as long periods of boredom, short burst of terror, seemingly lasting forever, To those who are there, Waiting for another outburst, which never seems to cease.
You Pray, you count all your blessings, the outgoing not what you fear, its the incoming that can't be trusted.
War can be defined as boredom, for those who's life was spared, as the days in between that matters, on those who life spent there.

2008

poem by Charles Garcia
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All Alone

SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
HER CHILDREN GROWN
WITH FAMILY OF THEIR OWN
SHE WONDERS WHAT HAPPEN
CHILDREN ALL OF THREE
THEY HAVE GROWN LIKE FRUIT UPON THE TREES
GRANDCHILDREN SHE HAS SIX
GETTING HARDER TO REMEMBER THEIR NAMES
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
NO ONE COMES TO VISIT
HER GRANDCHILDREN DOESN, T KNOW HER
HER CHILDREN HAS FORSAKEN HER
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE LOVED HER CHILDREN DEARLY
WANTED NOTHING BUT THE BEST
WORKED HARD AND WENT WITHOUT
HER CHILDREN SHE WOULD DIE FOR
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE WONDERS WHY
SHE THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE AROUND HER
LIKE ALL MOTHERS DO
GET TOGETHERS ON SUNDAYS
SEE A MOVIE OR TWO
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
SHE REEKS HER BRAIN
WONDERS WHAT DID SHE EVER DO
TO GET SUCH COLD TREATMENT
FROM THE BABIES SHE ONCE KNEW
SHE SITS THERE ALL ALONE
THE ANGELS CAME AND CARRIED HER HOME

poem by Verna Ralph
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The Cool Cat

The cool cat,
is just standing there.
The cool cat,
doesn't even glare.
The cool cat,
thinks he's so hot.
The cool cat,
doesn't give a snot.
The cool cat,
doesn't listen in class.
The cool cat,
thinks his better than the rest.
The cool cat,
really has no friends.
The cool cat,
smokes after school.
The cool cat,
left his family.
The cool cat,
is a player.
The cool cat,
has no prayers.
The cool cat,
has no savers.
The cool cat,
is one tough dude.
But really....
The cool cat,
is one big fool.

poem by Jasmine Aira
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In Memory Of The Unknown Poet, Robert Boardman Vaughn

But the essential advantage for a poet is not, to have a beautiful world with which to deal: it is to be able to see beneath both beauty and ugliness; to see the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.
T. S. ELIOT

It was his story. It would always be his story.
It followed him; it overtook him finally—
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

Probably at the end he was not yet sorry,
Even as the boots were brutalizing him in the alley.
It was his story. It would always be his story,

Blown on a blue horn, full of sound and fury,
But signifying, O signifying magnificently
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

I picture the snow as falling without hurry
To cover the cobbles and the toppled ashcans completely.
It was his story. It would always be his story.

Lately he had wandered between St. Mark’s Place and the Bowery,
Already half a spirit, mumbling and muttering sadly.
O the boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

All done now. But I remember the fiery
Hypnotic eye and the raised voice blazing with poetry.
It was his story and would always be his story—
The boredom, and the horror, and the glory.

poem by Donald Justice
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Anthem

Words and music by geddy lee, alex lifeson, and neil peart
Know your place in life is where you want to be
Dont let them tell you that you owe it all to me
Keep on looking forward, no use in looking round
Hold your head above the ground and they wont bring you
Down
Anthem of the heart and anthem of the mind
A funeral dirge for eyes gone blind
We marvel after those who sought
New wonders in the world, wonders in the world,
Wonders in the world they wrought
Live for yourself -- theres no one else
More worth living for
Begging hands and bleeding hearts will
Only cry out for more
Well, I know theyve always told you
Selfishness was wrong
Yet it was for me, not you, i
Came to write this song

song performed by by Rush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Void

I've seen so many faces
These hands have lied before
I've kissed so many lips it's blocked my mind
I've whispered bullshit, nothings
I've cried alone in night
I thought I'd found the one a million times
But doesn't anyone fill the void?
Doesn't anyone kill the joy?
Doesn't anyone take the place of you in my heart?
And doesn't anyone fill the void?
Doesn't anyone kill the joy?
Doesn't anyone take the place of you?
I let a stranger love me
I gave away my pride
I bit my lips, so I could block my mind
I've called your name to others
Just like a spinal chord
Severed and broken but the spark still tries
And doesn't anyone fill the void?
Doesn't anyone kill the joy?
Doesn't anyone take the place of you in my heart?
Doesn't anyone fill the void?
Doesn't anyone kill the noise?
Doesn't anyone take the place of you?
They don't know you like I do
They don't see the good inside you
They don't lie with you in bed and join you when you're dreaming
They don't see your softer side
Who'll be there to turn your light on?
Who will try to wash away the stain that love has left us?
Doesn't anyone fill the void?
Doesn't anyone kill the joy?
Doesn't anyone kill the place of you in my heart?
Doesn't anyone bring the noise?
Doesn't anyone kill the joy?
Doesn't anyone take the place of you?

song performed by by Darren Hayes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cover Girl

She wears the newest make-up
And drives the latest car
She might have the biggest D-cup
She’s the newest television star

She’s thin
Not a speck of spot
And have the nicest skin
And everybody thinks she’s hot

She has the perfect lips
And the sexy big eyes
The nice curve hips
And everyone wonders why

She doesn’t have to exercise to stay that way
She can eat anything she wants and she doesn’t put on fat
She goes outside every day
And everyone she meets think she’s all that

poem by Margo Reid
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Just Because

Just because you did
Doesn't mean that you should
Just because you can
Doesn't mean that you could
Just because you are able
Doesn't mean you would
Just because you sat
Doesn't mean you should‘ve stood.
Just because you spoke
Doesn't mean that you thought
Just because you looked
Doesn't mean that you sought
Just because you argued
Doesn't mean that you fought
Just because you dreamed
Doesn't mean that you wished not.
Just because you cried
Doesn't mean that you wept
Just because you had
Doesn't mean that you kept
Just because you cleaned
Doesn't mean that you swept
Just because you said yes
Doesn't mean that you accept.
Just because you gathered
Doesn't mean that you own
Just because you gave up
Doesn't mean that you were alone
Just because you saw
Doesn't mean that you were shown
Just because you expiate
Doesn't mean you should atone.
Just because your old
Doesn't mean that you have flaws
Just because you won
Doesn't mean you have to applause
Just because you waited
Doesn't mean that you paused
Just because you were you
Doesn't mean anything, because.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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Why are butterflies free?

A butterfly goes thru one of lives greatest metamorphoses.
It starts its life as a caterpillar going thru life eating and waiting for that moment to begging its life’s journey. It cocoons itself until it is ready for its last steps in life.
Spring forth from its cocoon, it frees itself and flies off into the light. It is its begging and ending all at the same time.

It doesn’t care about what the future brings
It doesn’t care about lesser things
It doesn’t care about the rain
It doesn’t care about the pain
It doesn’t care about where it belongs
It doesn’t care about a silly love songs
It doesn’t care about right or wrong
It doesn’t care about the road being to long
It doesn’t care if the sun sets in the east
It doesn’t care about war and piece
It doesn’t care about the world in helter skelter
It doesn’t care about a warm shelter

It has no idea about mass destruction
For that takes too much contemplation
For politics it has no reaction
It needs no constitution
Just being is its satisfaction
It looks to no one for absolution
No homeland for repatriation
It has no skin for condemnation
It has no time for recreation
It has no room for damnation

A butterfly lives its life like there is no tomorrow
For a butterfly there is no tomorrow
A butterfly just wonders the earth sapping up life as it goes by
It owes nothing to anyone
Fly butterfly, fly and be free
Be free to be free

poem by Wilfred Mellers
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She Has Skeletons In Her Closet

She doesn't want to admit who she is
Cause she has too many skeletons in her closet
She doesn't know that she's on a self-destructive path
But she doesn't even know it
She wanted to keep the relationship going,
but no one informed her it was over before it started
Cause she's not aware of her skeletons anymore
She thinks ignoring them will make them go away
Boy is she misinformed, but she didn't get the notice
She's gonna have a rude awakening
I wish i could be there to help her through it
But she fucked that one up
She had a clue but then she took a wrong turn
She's going to have a hard life
and no one can help her

(4-3-05)

poem by Brandi Young
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The life of the creative man is lead, directed and controlled by boredom. Avoiding boredom is one of our most important purposes.

quote by Susan Sontag
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Boredom Is Death's Luxury

BOREDOM IS DEATH'S LUXURY

Boredom is Death's Luxury,
The idle wasting of an idle life.

What Chance do we have to dream
When inside all is
Empty and Ended
Lost?

Oh we will begin again somehow, somewhere else.

But today now inside
Is only this Nowhereness
This Endless Stillness
This Nothingness.

Boredom is the Horror of Everyday Life
I feel this now so deeply
as I write this.

poem by Shalom Freedman
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Que Sera

They call to her from across the street
But they dont know her name
Shes in the wrong place at the wrong time
Whos to blame
She wonders how to change
The life shes living
She wonders if shell ever get away
As far as I can see, the writings on the wall
Theres no return, we live, we learn
The game goes on and on and
Que sera
I like you but I dont
Really want to take you home
Que sera
Its a lonely life
Living on my own
Que sera
Whats it gonna be, whats it gonna be
She left her home when she was seventeen
Simply disappeared in the rain
Those were bad times so it was high time
She knows shed do it again
She wonders how
Shes gonna make a living
She wonders if shell make it through the day
As far as I can see, Ive seen it all before
A lonely girl in a big bad world
The game goes on and on and
Que sera...

song performed by by Ace Of Base
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sexual follies

No man thinks he doesn’t deserve
The woman he desires to have.
No woman thinks she doesn’t deserves
The man she desires to retain.
08.05.2010

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Seven simple rules of being adaptive

Seven simple rules of being adaptive
One, being the best doesn’t always make you survive
Two, beware of boredom and of loneliness, it will stay and decay you fast
Three, if you caught in front of many people, doing something stupid, just smile and relax. They’ll soon forget about it
Four, never bring food if you don’t want to share
Five, if ever asked to think about pressure, don’t
Six, listen what people say but never indulge with their sentiments
And finally, never conquer the world, it always unpredictable, it will trick you and exhaust your life

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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Poem (‘It Doesn’t Look Like A Finger...’)

It doesn’t look like a finger it looks like a feather of broken glass
It doesn’t look like something to eat it looks like something eaten
It doesn’t look like an empty chair it looks like an old woman
searching in a heap of stones
It doesn’t look like a heap of stones it looks like an estuary where
the drifting filth is swept to and fro on the tide
It doesn’t look like a finger it looks like a feather with broken teeth
The spaces between the stones are made of stone
It doesn’t look like a revolver it looks like a convolvulus
It doesn’t look like a living convolvulus it looks like a dead one
KEEP YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF MY FRIENDS USE THEM ON
YOUR BITCHES OR
YOURSELVES BUT KEEP THEM OFF MY FRIENDS
The faces between the stones are made of bone
It doesn’t look like an eye it looks like a bowl of rotten fruit
It doesn’t look like my mother in the garden it looks like my father
when he came up from the sea covered in shells and tangle
It doesn’t look like a feather it looks like a finger with broken wings
It doesn’t look like the old woman’s mouth it looks like a handful
of broken feathers or a revolver buried in cinders
The faces beneath the stones are made of stone
It doesn’t look like a broken cup it looks like a cut lip
It doesn’t look like yours it looks like mine
BUT IT IS YOURS NOW
SOON IT WILL LOOK LIKE YOURS
AND ANYTHING YOU SEE WILL BE USED AGAINST YOU

London Bulletin, No. 2 (May 1938), 7.

poem by Hugh Sykes Davies
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All Alone

She lies alone
All alone no one cares
No one knows she aches with pain
Wishing she knew why
Wishing she could give in
To a simple lie
She lies alone
And thinks about him
But there's nothing she can do
Nothing but hurt
She waits and wonders
Whether to love
Or to hate
But she cannot bring herself
To hate her love
Nor love she hates
She lies alone
And wonders what to do
Lay there and die
Or listen to him lie
The one that mattered
Has left her
Torn and tattered so deep
That it couldn't even bleed
Leaving her to lie alone
All alone

poem by Broken Hearts
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A Few Advices To A Nephew Studying The Science Of Psychology

you say you want noise
so much noise in fact
in the middle of the night
to bury the boredom reigning in yourself.

i wonder if you have consulted the gods and goddesses of poertry.
if you have gone at the entrance of its temples.
one does not need noise to expunge boredom.
one needs only silence.

you tell me i am different. Sort of telling me you are different
and you belong to the wonders of your youth.
i am telling you, you are wrong my dear nephew.

you have taken so much noise, and you are lost.
you have disregarded the voice of your heart
and the furies will take the revenge.

the noise will take you like the Pied Piper of Hamelin
to the sea with all the rats and there
they will drown with you.

Take your time. Have fun with so much noise.
When this fails, and i know it will, please come back
and drink the lovely potion of silence.
This is the beginning
of poetry.

Some things are so real, in this poetic imagination.
As she once puts it: an imaginary garden with real toads in them.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Welcome The Rain That Comes In The Month Of August

equate the month of august with agony, it simply sounds like that
does not jibe well with sorrow or sadness, sounds too underestimating
and it goes well with the rain that comes surprisingly today
on this hot month, on this arid soil, on this acrid atmosphere

between us, this silence, inside us the rambling thoughts of
alienation, around us is the smell of spices of separation those that
when sliced like onions when peeled by our trembling fingers make us cry,

out there our eyes look at different directions and our hands are taking
the forms of mutual dislike like some roots spreading down the deep recesses
of this earth, preferring to be anonymous in this undescribable boredom

i like the rain, the sound of dripping, the slowness of life, dripping from my
hands like raindrops, like things gradually wasting themselves reaching my
toes, numb to my nails, wanting to be buried to the ground and simply

be forgotten

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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