Watching paint dry
I look at the room,
it is dusty and old!
No change,
very little inspiration,
the same old,
familiar story!
The usual pieces of furniture,
litter the room,
they clutter the place,
make it feel,
all tired and old!
But hey,
what can I do?
I look,
I observe,
inspect the room.
Pacing back and forth,
a sea of ideas,
Grabbing a carton of milk,
I hatch up a plan!
Grab myself a brush,
and a tin of paint!
I get to work,
livening the walls!
Whizzing through the room,
with a bundle of energy,
the place is soon booming,
with a new found energy!
I sit back,
admire the view,
patrol the room!
Watching the paint dry,
the individual drops of paint,
slowly trickle down,
I inspect everyone,
amazing they are!
Every drop,
has its own story,
I watch each one,
with keen eyes,
never let,
any slip by!
Such gripping stuff,
it's no wonder,
I patrol,
at every hour of the night!
Well if you read between the lines you might spot the hidden meaning!
The poem was inspired by a friends constant remark about my behaviour in a certain place!
I look at the room,
it is dusty and old!
No change,
very little inspiration,
the same old,
familiar story!
The usual pieces of furniture,
litter the room,
they clutter the place,
make it feel,
all tired and old!
But hey,
what can I do?
I look,
I observe,
inspect the room.
Pacing back and forth,
a sea of ideas,
Grabbing a carton of milk,
I hatch up a plan!
Grab myself a brush,
and a tin of paint!
I get to work,
livening the walls!
Whizzing through the room,
with a bundle of energy,
the place is soon booming,
with a new found energy!
I sit back,
admire the view,
patrol the room!
Watching the paint dry,
the individual drops of paint,
slowly trickle down,
I inspect everyone,
amazing they are!
Every drop,
has its own story,
I watch each one,
with keen eyes,
never let,
any slip by!
Such gripping stuff,
it's no wonder,
I patrol,
at every hour of the night!
Well if you read between the lines you might spot the hidden meaning!