Bored Poetry (I)

Boredom, not necessity, is the mother of invention (maybe, but probably not). Here’s some poems to make that case.

A Priest and Cobbler

I am a cobbler, you are a priest.
Why must this be?
Our bodies and minds are human,
And yet we choose to be,
Joined at the hip by humanity,
Yet poles apart by bigotry.
I did not choose to be a cobbler,
Nor did you a priest –
Yet we still confine ourselves,
To ideas even time may not remember.

Why must this be?

Brown

Brownies are divine,
chocolate is delicious,
and brunette locks shine,
flowing in the wind.

Coffee is warm,
rich and bold;
Cinnabons are fun,
soft as velvet folds.

Yet my skin – it is brown.
It must be hidden,
not seen in town.

Wandering

In a park,
on a bench,
under the mistletoe I see:
A shooting star
flies by,
and I make a wish –
I shall see the mountains,
I shall brave the seas,
I shall go everywhere,
the world will never leave me.

But alas, my daydream is broken,
when I hear the voice of my teacher –
“Please pay attention.”

But tomorrow is another day,
and I shall wonder once again.