the beauty of boredom

I have boredom as a personal trait.

not happy with mindfulness.

suspect, both of the intake as content,

and the thought-form as manipulations.

maybe it is my emotional self,

possessing a mind of its own.

not that they ever argue,

but neither are they 

hardly ever in the same conversation.

my feel doesn't take pictures,

or want to go to mind-camp,

as if to learn how to work together.

if its temperament versus cognition,

I'm all for disposition,

rather than frame of mind.

I am more for the bask of light

than the sight of recognition's forthcoming.

I'll take the embrace of a hammock,

way before I appreciate the relax to be gained.

I like the strum of boredom,

finding its way.

its style of framing awareness,

once beyond reactiveness,

it is less of a pin-down 

and more of an embrace.

I see, to be taken up.

I touch, in some way to fuse.

I would take the wear-age of self, off,

just to get real.

real, beyond the potential of claim.

real, as if nude beyond a narrative.

to me, thought is always like a police line-up

and I am asked to identify,

as a responsible party, in the know.

maybe I live for the crime of oneness,

where identity-theft is not possible.

live in a world, 

where hurt is not so passive-aggressive, 

where pain is a private conversation spoken out-loud.

but otherwise, to discover,

that if I paint with emotions,

awareness is the canvass

and the audience is my inner eyes . . .