nobody writes poetry about the banal
the ticking clocks and coffee drips
clicked buttons and phones ringing
white walls with greige carpet
waiting in lines for daily tedium
this is where we spend most our time
existing in between the magical
skimming edges of something beautiful
our existence both mundane yet unparalleled
I feel grateful for every tea ring in my mug
pages of old books I will never read
time spent waiting for replies
or watching paint dry on canvas
because this sliver of existence
brief and bland though it may be
can occur only once at this very moment
and our fleeting mortality is extraordinary

let's bring down the horizon
let's burn this city to the ground
when it's just you and me against the world
we'll shatter the oceans
whisper Poseidon to the sea
we'll **** the gods and kiss the skies
whisper filth behind closed doors
and bury the mountains
they've built around us
and steal the stars
just for us

some days it feels like
everyone is out
living their lives
while I am typing into a void
that leaves me more empty
than when I started

poetry poured from me
when I thought of you
all blue ink was made of your eyes
every white page, your skin
verses were a joy to create
I felt freedom in imagination
shared thoughts and feelings
inspiration from your lips
your tongue and teeth
both cobra and kitten
strike or purr, I loved both
now orchids are a hallowed
feeling in the pit of my chest
where once a heart was
the night is dreadfully boring
the moon writes no sonnets
every rainbow is filtered in sepia
stars illuminate and I feel nothing
oceans are filled of dead things
another day passes
where thoughts are unspoken
and pen never meets paper