Boring.
Sometimes life is just that
Boring.

The mark on the ceiling is still
The same mark that it was yesterday
And so the same the day before, and before
And before.

And the rip in the carpet is still
In the same place
Still the same size
Still annoying to look at.

When the fan whirs it is
The same as always
Boring
And the television is no help
Because mostly the shows are re-runs.

Holes in the wall from past posters are still
Just as out of place on the semi-fresh paint.

And when going outside doesn't really help
It's boring
The sky is still
Blue
The grass is
Green
Which is why I retreat to this computer
Typing away
Typing, typing, typing.

Because fantasy is never boring
And stories will always be
In my head
To write of another's life seems
Amusing
While reality, my life itself
Life is boring.