This extreme boredom’s been following me since my young ages
like a jailed figure under either punishment or experiment
where the stimulated subject is in its own simulation
finding every possibilities to act for a fact
that he is still existing.

I’ve been imprisoned during my entire life even if differently
instead of celled walls, I fenced myself with books,
escaping the outside to inner-made worlds
of writers with the finest thinking
effacing boredom.

But with time even books started to bore me like movies and series,
everything built on the same structure and mechanism;
the so adored knowledge left me alone,
and started to bore me more
as if I knew everything.

Then, escaping boredom became a daily routine among routines;
I got a job just not to be bored between the walls,
at work, I stay the longest and do everything,
but I return every night to the same walls
of I am still imprisoned.

Grabbing the pen to write, boredom kills out my rhymes and virtues:
“Ah, I know these lines.” as if hearing the umpteenth remix
of a song that had kept playing for so long now,
so it became meaningless, awkward
a life in a boredom stow.

Benyamin Bensalah


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