A day in the life of: someone that writes bad poems.

A day in the life of, someone that writes bad poems.

Eyes closed tightly, the alarm unheard
Motionless as consciousness is deferred
Numbers in neon blue intensely shining
A discordant melody persistently wining
Blurry vision distinguishes number
Permits 5 more minuets of slumber
Reluctantly leaving the quilt cocoon
Seizes outfit and is ready quite soon
stands in bathroom, observes reflection
Tries to fix the imperfections
Gives up on that, go put on shoes
Sit and watch the morning news
Wanting the morning to last
time ticks by unnaturally fast
Leave the warmth, bag on shoulder
Floor harder, air colder
Marching the street
Stop bus, get seat
overweight woman with an unpleasant face
Lowers herself beside me, fills the space
Takes up all of her seat and a quarter of mine
Stay calm find ipod to past the time
Not knowing the bus woman, still I loath her
The bus stops. I squeeze past. its over.
The cold breeze never felt so good
Air now smells like it should
A small saunter, then turning
I attended my place of learning.
How will this day will go, I’ve got a hunch
Lesson.. Break.. Lesson.. Lunch?
Talking to people who have nothing to say
Unimpressive conversation full of teen clichés
Encircled by people, still I text friend
Last lesson over, the days at an end
Walk out of the college and then
I’m on the bus yet again.
Get home, get bored
write poetry, it makes me reassured
but don’t try to find any connotations,
amongst the abysmal punctuation
Because It has no underlying theme,
Like the monotonous rhyming scheme
isn’t a refection of the times,
I just like to rhyme in lines
Its as well formed as Larson
In and out of third person,
this poem is awful, what can I say?
dire in every way,
just a commentary of the day.
-The end-