What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your terrible stories,
it makes me think about
what boredom means to me
and why it’s beauty that I find
in apparent mundanity.

you color my life in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing and poetic, underrated way.
GREY - the soul of every color in the world;
Invisible and aligned - right between extremes -
like all well designed things are known to be.

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 pajama informal.

You’re my common sense, and my reality check,
my perspective lens, my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plot less stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette  I've come to adore,
painting magic in monochrome.

He spent his life  in factorys
Worked his fingers to the bone
Fifty years have come and gone
Now retired he stays at home.
A family he provided for
Now the children they have grown
They have all moved on and fled the nest
They've got to make it on there own.
He looks around at all four walls
And he wonders just were he is going
So he thinks about this thing called life
And writes about it in a poem.