Bored
I be bored,
Not of the sun, warmth or people,
Nor of pain, sadness or hurt.
But of all of this and more,
Of life itself and nothing else.
How is it to be bored of life,
Many indeed would ask?
Yet I ask the same question,
Every waking moment.
But still the answer does evade,
Yet I know I speak the truth.
I am bored,
Nothing more and nothing less.
With little less to do,
Sleep seems a good option.
When I have finally lost all interest,
I shall challenge the last unconquered frontier,
That being the unknown of death.
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