Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.

I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.

You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.

The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.

It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
s Dec 2017
when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your story,
I ponder what boredom means to me
and why I'm grateful for mundanity.

you colour my life
in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing, poetic,
underrated way.
grey - the soul
of every colour in the world -
invisible and aligned
like all things well designed.

or maybe because grey
feels like routine,
and you’re the everyday
that's to come
and that has been.

you're where I set my bar for normal;
you're my Sunday night pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense,
my reality check,
my perspective lens,
my goodnight peck;
and even your grim phone voice
& plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette 
I've come to adore,
painting magic
in monochrome.
Hannah Cutler Feb 2018
I’m done with sitting around
waiting for life to guide me
through a meaningless existence
as if things just happen.
hoping for problems to work
themselves out, regressing
to the safety and comfort
of nothingness,
doing nothing,
being nothing,

options have plagued the world,
so vast and unattainable that you’re
overwhelmed by choice,
disadvantaged by practicality.
expectations appear formidable
until you realise that most
lead a nine to five life,
hypnotised by the norm,
the mundanity is too much.

how do you begin to transform
a life that is settled in its routine?
to chance and hope without a
tangible end goal

then one day you realise
your meaning in life.
so precious and perfect
you must savour it,
cherish it. delve into
the world of possibility.

not everything works out.
truly there is no overarching
meaning to existence
but when you find your own
as different and quirky as it may be,
embrace its madness and
then you will be free.
I have been thinking a lot recently about what I want my life to be and how I am going to achieve that. I realised that there are so many routes a person can take in life, so much so that it becomes overwhelming to decide and almost impractical to start fresh. A lot of people end up trapped in their normal routine out of fear for the unknown and I am determined to break free of my predictable daily existence and live a life I can enjoy in its entirety, but I am still not sure what that looks like, yet.
"The worst things:
To lie in bed and sleep not.
To want for one who comes not.
To try to please and please not."
                 -- Egyptian Proverb

It fades in and   fades             out
The     meandering    song of despair.
     Fading what  once     caused
The frequencies to harmonize.
Random patterns   desperately

Her  moods   weave    in           counter
To my intense     focus in   the refrain.
        Our symbiotic   gazing across the room
At the  rhythmic  blue   light  Illuminating
Denials elusive      fingertip touch
Fading into yet another    impossible dream.

The notes are still     laid out on
The well-weathered pages.
The movements    still moving    gracefully
On a near anti-climactic      stage.

All that is   needed   are the instruments
And patrons of means to employ
A symphony    suffering long
On a soulless      listless     frequency  band
Made only to vibrate complete
But is now   caught    in   this      jumbled loop
In a now    out-        of-        sync  universe

                  -­-Daniel Irwin Tucker
Sounds disparaging, but there is a ray of just have dig for it a bit.
Ryan James Jun 2015
He was an exister
Was bestowed the breath of mundanity
Never questioned
His parents
His teachers
Grew up to be a lawyer
Not to bring justice
But to be a lawyer
Because he never questioned
His parents
His teachers
And then he retired
He had saved all of his earnings
Not because he needed to
But because he never questioned
His parents
His teachers
Finally he had retired
At last, he could live
But before he could
He took his last breath of mundanity
He died
Jake Danby May 2015
It is winter, icy night outside the ancient terraced house, crisp
and creeping-cold, the road fleeting and the boisterous,
rejoicing revelers invading my room unseen but well heard,
silky-blacked, silk-backed, slick-backed, on the loudbusybarstriken front street.
The houses are sleeping like the dead (though the dead shan’t wake the morrow, in the deep, frosted earth) or sleeping like snoring Grandma
Passed the creaking stairs, behind the thick wooden door.
The chimneys enjoy a smoke, and the street watching in lazy light.
And the people of the long and aging road are lying, dormant, on hold now.

Be still, the birds are in wait, the office-workers, the budget-blunderers, the dole-wallers and money-splashers, equestrians, assistants, cricketers and coppers, the seller and the sold to, convicts, clergy, scrap-men, soldiers, the wary eyed whistleblowers and bleak spinsters. The elderly lie alone, cold and widowed, falling in love in dreams of those long passed, gramophones serenading them with swinging sounds since forgotten. The bachelors lie not alone but feel it, aside women they met but a moment prior. And the sloothing silhouettes of foxes stalk in the brush, and the fallen leaves clump prickled by the spiking spines of a slumbering hedgehog, and the hens in the clucking coops; and the mice creep across grassy planes playing hide and go seek, darting and ducking, amidst the quiet nightly warzone.

You can hear the frost amassing, and the old homes groaning.
Only your eyes are alive to see the bellowing chimney pots washing the black sky with grey, consuming and spreading, smoke. And you stand alone in hearing the working dogs retort with the sky, the primal yowl, where Jack Russell’s, Bull Terriers, Whippets and Grey Hounds, Fox hounds, Patterdales, Lakelands and Border Terriers take wolven shape and warrant the moon and stars to adjourn.

Heed. It is much too late, or early, the day-break behemoth’s begin to crawl blind through dawn, slumped uniform and jangling key and toast crumbed stubble, golden tie pin and tracksuit top, parted as the red sea, racing rats, inhaling bus fare; openmouthed in Citrone’s, rattled morning news; in Pickwick’s cafe shutters exhale the bleak dark and swallow first light. It is genesis in Chester-Le-Street, coagulating evermore, with breakfast offers stuffed down its throat, passed my frosted window pane, sleet and rain, headphones, lit cigarette, black brew two sugars, lichened grave stones and flashing blue lights. It is break of day amongst the pushers of pencils.

Watch. It is discontent, dragging, alone coursing through a bacon stottie; clinging to a dead end rock, aside the cockles and mussels, to be exhumed by an uncomfortable chair and the computer on the blink.

Is this it. Ask. Is this it.

— The End —