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s Dec 2017
when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your awful stories,
I wonder 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 - right between extremes -
like all things well designed ought 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 pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense, and my reality check,
my perspective lens, my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette  I've come to adore,
painting magic in monochrome.
Andrew Jul 2017
This routine moon
Spells my doom
When it's a dragon's tail
Of a day that's failed
Like the rays that bailed
My time turned stale
When the moon kept appearing
Like the echoes I'm hearing
When I wake in the morning
To see the same plot forming
I try to escape back to sleep
For the repetition makes me weep
And curse the indifferent heavens
While waiting on my lucky sevens
To get me out of a life so mundane
I feel the constant need to switch lanes
But the routine moon haunts from above
When the routine life is missing all love
Noor Sep 2013
Canned latte, water, fruit punch Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, M4 right side

Talk of ***
Talk of food
It's all allowed
Nothing's too crude
Sometimes you talk
Sometimes you listen
Don't talk later 'bout what's said on mission
Check alleyways, balconies, traffic, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops

Red Bull, Gatorade, citrus Rip-It
Gulp it, down it, chug it, sip it
In the gunner's sling, sway side to side
240B in the cradle, shotgun left side

In the distance, flashes of white light
Watch them bloom throughout the green night
Was it dust lightning? Was it a bomb?
Don't matter to us, this mission carries on
Two hours to dawn, eight hours 'til we're done
Check balconies, traffic, alleyways, rooftops
At five miles-an-hour, this convoy never stops
Peter Gareth Apr 4
Everyday feels the very same
Waking up early
Taking crowded trains
Coming home exhausted
Having trouble sleeping

Seems like I'm stuck in a loop
Chasing my own tail
Being broken by routine
Should I runaway?
Or even could I?

Things were simpler back then
When I did as I pleased when I wanted to
I miss being free
But now I'm convinced
Growing up is like settling on a cage
karin naude Apr 2013
why do I keep wanting what I cant have?!
my every action is being taken over by this desire
my actions are no longer my own
my thoughts, my thinking, my future
all swallowed up and devoured by the constant empty feeling in my chest
my human chest no longer filled with a heart and lungs
just-a-void
always hungry needing to be fed
but nothing can ever reach the bottom
it is an endless cilinder
the bottom of a bottle
the end of a needle
the warmth of tobacco
sure looks good
will silence the voices

like the girl said
wake-up,
wash,
get dressed,
eat,
work,
home,
eat,
wash,
sleep,
next day repeat
in between find time of music, poetry and chats
hi, hud, im gud and you, wud, jc, l2m,
endless routine stuck in endless crap
is this all there is to the 21 century
nosipho khanyile Jul 2018
habits are a different form of story telling

tell a good story.
Tanya Feb 16
.
                                             Bathe me in your love
                                          with lukewarm kisses,
                                       shampoo my hair
                                    with your speeches,
                                 condition with care
                               and let it dry on sun flare;
                             then put on
                          my favorite pajama
                       and let my lips thank you
                   as my eyelids pull the curtains
                of my mind
             and I fall asleep
      
         right
                        by
                
                                   your
                                  
                             ­                     side
switch off the lights
v V v Nov 2015
I.

She’ll drive through the parking lot
at quarter past eight tonight;
but first she’ll put up the gravy
and throw away salad.

There is something amiss with the sun.
The angle through the window,
she’s never noticed it on
her plate before

because by now
they were usually seated in the den
where the sun would greet them there,
not here.

It’s not like him to be late.
She worries while she sits,
waits a little longer,
watches the sun slide over
the edge of the table
and drift toward the empty den.

She feels as if she’s
stepped off a spaceship
after landing on a different planet
and the simple act of breathing
requires exaggerated effort.

She looks around at nothing that’s familiar.

She gets up and clears the plates,
feeds the dog, loads the wash
then heads for the door.

Its no surprise
she finds his car parked
in space 138.
The same place he always parks
when he goes for a run.

She shakes her head  
and checks her watch,
confused by the clock
on the dash, 8:31 pm.

It doesn’t make sense.

25 years of routine behavior
makes her think that it is morning.
He parks in space 138
in the morning.

Troubled by her fractured norm
she calls 911 and waits for
the police to arrive.
They tell her that they found a man
and ask her to go with them but
she cannot, or will not go with them
to identify a dead man,

lifeless on a concrete slab
in a cold city basement
under blue neon buzz
above refrigerated drawers.

They will need to find another way
to break her heart tonight.

She refuses to hear what happened,
how a mental patient ran from
behind a tree and hacked him
with a rusty machete.

She will not go with them,
she will not listen to their story,
she will not turn on the television,
she will not speak to anyone but

she will hang on to routine.

She will hold it tightly
for as long as she can.

II.

On a random Saturday at 5:15
she rushes to prepare dinner by 5:30.
At 5:35 she stares at the kitchen clock,
the one they calibrate with Greenwich
once a month.

At 5:36 she takes off her apron,
folds it carefully so as not to wrinkle it,
wipes a bead of sweat from her upper lip
and wonders if its menopause.

Her heart is racing as
she jumps at the sound of the telephone.
  
When she hangs up she is calm.

The coroner has confirmed.

She heads toward the back door,
spots her keys on the left hook while
the right hook sits empty
and she begins to cry.
    
She takes her keys into the garage
but leaves her purse behind.
She won’t be driving anywhere tonight.
She starts the car,
    
leaves it running and gets out,
lies down on the cold cement floor,
curls into a fetal position and
slowly drifts toward sleep.

She finally admits the truth.

He sleeps on cold cement as well.
A very sad story that has stayed with me now for several weeks... I wake up thinking about it, I am haunted by this story..

http://www.dallasnews.com/news/metro/20151027-for-wife-of-white-rock-slaying-victim-pain-was-unbearable.ece
I rose, from where I lay.
The slumber then being done with me,
To follow upon what's necessary––
A routine sung out to me.

Then on this particular day,
Trees on the outside
Waved with the wind—inside.
No thought was then wasted

In entering a paradise
Where the clouds charioted across
the sky—to diffuse the harshness of light
So that I could glance at the source of life.
Poetria Feb 2018
The only love I want to feel anymore
is the love of the Sea, of the trees, of mountains and rainbows and beautiful buildings, flowers and strangers and poetry, animals and books and art and everything alive,
everything I can only catch glimpses of, everything I need, which I don't have.

I need the love of the Earth, not it's people.
I'll start writing more seriously after my exams in May, but here's something for now
Sanjali Mar 2018
11
-Numbers 1 to 9-

I am happy to be here,
Where I can find numbers each morning.
Sun shining through my window,
I walk barefoot downstairs,
Even though my bones crack
I am quiet as a cat.

With warm coffee I can sit,
And as I nibble on the food
I fill out all the blanks.
My pen is black in color
Just like the ink on paper,
They both match each other.

I recall my resolutions
I made a list just days past,
But writing is so much fun.
I write numbers one to nine,
When they are correct I feel fine,
But some numbers I cannot find.

I have finished all my food,
So I go out to sit in the sunshine.
I cover up my face,
Place the paper on the grass,
I let the noise fade at last,
But I must consider every remark.

With criticism one can be better
But then why are these tears around?
I can’t find seven and eight.
I need those numbers,
I need to make them match,
I need to complete these lines.
Wrote this in January, hence the resolution part \o/
Nicholas Mar 8
Oh,
how you have begot routine

An occupation entered most
unexpectedly

Consuming a once
vivid and polymathic soul
Seeped into your bones
Left you forgot,
a flickering and
dying star

Yes,
you're here every day,
but you're heart feels vacant;
gone away, or really still at
home, wherever that is

Your body's traveling the
world, but your mind's spinning in
circles,
too fast to see past the
fugue

Will you reminisce of these days to your future
children?
Or will you skip this period,
for this is
not really you to begin with?

Hope
your intermission will come to an end

May you someday return, spirited and
renewed
OC Dec 2018
We toil
And slave
And sweat
On  mundane tasks of day-to-day
In a trodden path
We pace in circles
Through a routine
Thicker than molasses

Our arm extended to both sides
And fingers spread as fans
We make the struggle even worse
In an effort to ensnare
Not matter,
But what matters
The idle chats when days draw to a close
A gentle, loving stroke
A smile, a laugh
A joyful tear
A warm embrace before the dawn
And sometimes
(if we're lucky)
Even a plump adventure

All of which we catch
In the sieves that are our palms
Bringing them
Closer to our core
Kneading
Forming
Sculpting
Into prisms of pure light
Shining like the sunrise
Placing those
One on top the other
While keeping on the go
Brick by brick
We build ourselves
A home
I love life with you, for all its comprising parts
life
and with you
Äŧül Nov 2012
In That Moonlit Night Standing In The Abaft,
Watching The Towed Flaccid Wooden Raft,
I Thought That I Saw An Angel Resting,
Lying Exhausted There In That Craft.

I Call The Girl Out Unbeknownst Of Her Kind Name,
"Hey Young Lady!!" To Which She Didn't Much Respond,
She Looks Up Towards Me Once In Anguish & Collapsed,
I Spot Desperation In Amber Eyes & Resolve To Help Her.

The Crewmen Had Now Been Doing The Paddles After Resting,
I Summon My Captain & Ask, "Do You See That Girl In The Raft?"
The Captain Now Smiles To Say, "Commodore, Better Get Married,"
I Look So Clueless To Which He Simply Replied, "There Is No Girl."

True He Was As She Had Simply Disappeared,
I Started Thinking Of My Sleep Needs That Day,
I Looked Around Again In A Hope To Find The Girl,
I Had Compromised My Routine As The Commodore.

Then I Immediately Realized It Was My Wild Phantasm,
Now This Was Just A Plain Illusion Of A Tired Sailor's Mind,
No Mermaids Could Have Ever Existed In Reality & Were Fake,
I Turned Towards The Deck To Go Back To My Bunk For Sleeping.

As I Climbed Down The Stairs To Enter My Room Amazed & Dazed,
I Saw Her Standing And Waiting For Me By The Side Of My Bunk,
I Accepted That Delusion Of My Mind & Started To Lie Down,
She Said, "I'm As Real As Your Thoughts, Don't Fear Me."

She & I-Me & Her, Had The Best Time That Night,
In The Morning She Was Gone & Was Just Gone,
Disappeared Into Thin Air While I Was Asleep,
Each Day I So Dearly Long For Her To Return.
7 Stanzas of a Beautiful Open-Eyed Dream

Read the entire Angel Saga by me, Atul Kaushal.
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/13567/the-angel-series/

My HP Poem #19
©Atul Kaushal

I thank you all so much for the overwhelming response that this poem has received.

If you get interested in reading my novel's eBook after having read this poem then do visit http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B00MYY0DMA for buying my story titled "7 Seconds" and supporting my medical expenses.
دema Jan 6
It's good to miss you,
routines make me get bored easily,
and boy have you failed at being consistent!

I'm just worried,
do you even miss me too?
If this becomes the routine,
then what do I even get out of it all?
Sara Kellie Jul 2018
A Queen in waiting, a Princess no less.
Each day, a routine before being seen.
For some, a shadow and not of the eye.
The kind you'd find on that of a guy.
An army of pogonophobes in dysphoric confusion.
Each purging our wardrobes,
a repeated delusion.

A leading *******
from a pornographic circus.
The ***** under graduate from
a school of *** workers.
Your Hubby's vision in blue
is our secret down south,
'cause he wouldn't kiss you with
that ***** mouth.

So I'll stop you there Sizzle Chest,
with your cans of Stella
in your pristine white vest,
'cause this is real easy,
even for you Mr ******.

I used to be a Princess but
now I'm a Queen,
recently coronated
after all that I've seen.

Poetry by Kaydee.
Hazy musings from a land of candy pink
are the dreams of a Princess.
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