Gazing at a mundane paper
The mundane eyes came across
A mundane error in a mundane question
In a mundane hall

The mundane boy returned
To his mundane house
He had a mundane lunch
With his mundane pet mouse

When the mundane moon came out
Of the mundane sky
He put on Eleanor Rigby on his mundane phone
(As he did every mundane night)
And slept mundanely
In the mundane moonlight

This is how the mundane boy
Lived his mundane life

Mundane days
are different for everyone.
Sometimes they're walking into the same bar
every Friday night.
Ordering the same drink
from the same bartender
and drinking to forget.

Sometimes they're jogging in a park every morning
playing the same song
at the same time.
Passing the same people out every day
like clockwork
following their own routines
at the same time.

Mundane days.
Sometimes they're sitting by a window
that's getting pummeled by rain.
With the same type of hot cocoa
that's slightly too hot to drink every time,
breathing in the warm and comforting scent instead.
Looking out the window
lost in the same stormy thoughts.

Mundane days
spent going to school,
talking to the same people.
Hanging out with the same crowd.
Dealing with waves
of perfectly normal teenager-y exhaustion.

They're spent shopping for Christmas dresses
like girls do every year.
The same stores, same disapointment
when the dresses aren't perfect.
The smiles when they find the one.
Priceless yet so mundane.
To be repeated next year.

Sometimes they're people watching
in a crowded train station,
the same one every morning to get to work.
Smiling at the cute couples,
admiring outfits, and sighing at the same commuters
who happen to have the same schedule
and get on the same trains ever morning.

Mundane days spent reading, writing, watching Netflix.
Days spent talking, napping,
eating leftovers from last night's dinner.
Mundane days going about a crystal clear routine
carefully carved by weeks of despair beforehand.
Mundane days born of times when routine was needed
just to feel something.
Just to feel anything.

They look all normal.
All perfectly pristine.
Innocent and mundane.
Until the glass is shattered.