I get easily bored of myself.
I don't wish to talk of my adventures,
prefer to listen,
to hear the lives I do not live,
lives I do not know.
I am unextraordinary,
lackluster,
a muted rhythm in a world of symphonies.
I do not spark excitement or joy,
I drudge through secrets,
remarkably unremarkable.
Menial answers spill from my lips,
to questions that ask who I am—
but we both know
neither of us cares.
Instead, drown me in your colors,
blow me away with tales of woe,
I won't stay long,
I must return to gray,
though for a moment,
you make me feel
as if I were truly living.
YOU ARE READING
Letters I'll Never Send
PoetryA simple letter can convey so much emotion, too bad no one will ever receive them
