“What’s there to do? I’m bored,” I would complain
to Mom when I was young enough to ask.
“Go hit your head,” was her bizarre refrain,
“against the wall.” I’d find myself a task.
For I avoided boredom like a curse –
inventing selfish games as need arose.
Besides depression, nothing could be worse,
I figured, born immune to grievous lows.

The boredom lessened as my years increased
(so time alive shrinks every quality),
but my exasperation hasn’t ceased
with droning friends and banal family.
My mates were dull – my custom was rebuff.
You’re boring too, but you I love enough.

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