Bored by Eric Sparks

Bored and wishing these poems away;
they won’t do me any good anyway.
And I could write a thousand or more any day;
so I write today or tomorrow; it doesn’t matter either way.

If they could save my soul,
I’d probably let them grow until
they blossomed into full-fledged worlds
filled with fairy tales and reality;
you know, fancy spins and whirls.

As it is though, I write them down,
just how they come to me. Because in
actuality they can’t save me or anybody
else from these tragedies or any kind of happenings;
our best hope is to sit still happily.