i sometimes float
in the kitchen
wondering
where to go.

the time oozes
from every crevice;
the digital numbers
on the oven

fall away like weak
magnets slip from the fridge
door,
like my mind as i linger

on the floor, cradling
a cup of tea
yearning for an urge,
a drip of

inspiration.
but here i am, boring
as ever
filled with

frustration that frolics
and laughs,
telling me how good
i will never be

that’s all i ever do:
‘be’.
admiring others that do
more than me;

i am good at loving
and seeing,
but what will that ever
come to?

i sometimes laugh at myself
instead of being flattened,
i blow myself up
and burst.

sometimes i am plastered
against a wall,
and i give up
and blend in.