i was bored writing this poem

 Where were us idlers found 50 years ago?

Train station. Doctor’s room. Traffic light. Walking.

Boredom. Bored. Boring. Get me the hell out of here.

So I do. Now, at my

Train station. My doctor’s room. My traffic light. My daily walking.

We just stare at a blinking screen, that satiates our

boredom.

Or that’s what they think I do. I read, but it’s all the same isn’t it.

Same little rectangle outlined with black.

Same little pucker above my brow.

Same little gape upon my mouth.

As I chase away my boredom.

Bye-bye boredom.

That’s what my parents think. Be bored, they say. It’s a skill, they say. Shut up, they mean.

But what do you reckon they do?

Well, child, while the world spins around, and the stars waltz with wonder, and exploding mines fill the East, while lovers mourn, as foes seethe, strangers sing

with the grace of heaven flowing through their veins,

My parents stare at that little rectangle outlined in black.

Chasing away their boredom.

I’m boring. I’m bored. Writing this, it’s boredom.

Boredom, boredom, go away, get lost, get out of my life.

The older men ask why I’m bored,

if all I need to satiate the inevitable hunger of boredom is a simple matte-black box,

and I wonder if they meaninglessly meddle as if

they weren’t hypocrites themselves, mesmerised by the unflinching glare of their phones.

Boredom never dies now. It won’t die anytime soon.

Though, we all hoped it would.