Art is Boring

The wind pushes against my window as if it’s aching to get inside 
while the crickets play a symphony outside,
A train horn caws eight miles away
The stars sit in the sky, like holes poked through drapes on a sunny day
The air conditioner is broken, so sweat slides down my body like lava from the volcanoes called pores
My chest moves slowly up and down, like waves rolling to the ocean's shores
My eyes stare at the computer screen, my canvas for the night
My fingers make key strokes, like brush strokes painting light, 
The sheets form a mountainous terrain of polyester rising to my knees
and falling to my feet
you see art, is a boring summer night,
with nothing else to do but write.
This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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