The mundane rarely inspires poetry.
Not the epic struggle of combing the knots from your curls, after weeks of letting them matte,
Nor the volcanic sensation of the shower, as you force yourself to wash.
Not the pills that numb the numbness, as though some magic permeates the chemicals,
Nor the rush of coffee in your blood stream, the adrenaline of entering a war zone.
Not your drive to work, battling through hoards of metal machines, weary and battered,
Nor the coffee break where an entire novel passes between you and your colleague in just a fleeting glance - but you say nothing.
The texts relaying concern arriving after all that time, like a letter sent by nightingale,
The stares fixed on your back, as though you've shifted form before their eyes,
The sense of dread and isolation each day after you recover, like you are an alien, otherworldly, other.
The mundane rarely inspires poetry,
But our minds are rarely mundane.
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supine thoughts
PoetryPoetry exploring thoughts into love, sexuality, mental health and navigating the modern world.
