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
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.