Boredom

A blank face matches the blank walls,
while tell-tale signs of stress are scattered around the room.
Frustration seeps out through your skin,
accompanied by the angry tears tricking down your cheeks.
There's just something about today,
that it hits you like a calculated backhand to the face.
You've cried out, screamed, kicked, clawed and stomped;
but to no avail. The tension has not weakened.
Nothing appears to work.
The boredom of it all charges you like a tidal wave,
knocking you over into a series of rough tumbles, stopping only when you hit the floor.
Your thoughts have been scattered, like wind-blown leaves,
and your stumbling around, attempting to stand; to regain your center.
Then the advance begins, by these thoughts you had carefully locked away.
They jump on you, attacking what they can, and you know you won't get out.
They're crawling all over your skin;
that light scratching, prickling sensation that feels nothing short of a thousand spiders.
So your head drops, and your shoulders follow with a slump;
your hands tread roughly through your hair, and then pull harshly.
The sheer frustration of this boredom spreads like a viral disease,
maliciously infecting everything in it's path.
EVERYTHING just fucking drives you.
The act of over analyzing every insignificant detail follows you;
haunts you. You can't break away from this harsh reality.
It grabs you around the throat and jerks you back with a firm and quick SNAP!
Insane, isn't it? That the inactivity of doing absolutely nothing can break you;
can shatter your precious, fragile mind into irrelevant pieces that will dissipate in the air.