Boredom on a piece of paper

.
.
.
With absolutely nothing to do on a sleepy Monday afternoon, I took my BIC black ballpoint pen and started shading the letters on a printed handout I took from atop the cubicle. At the back portion, seeing a completely blank white page, I felt myself obliged to write something down -- contrived pieces of wisdom, prosaic notations about my feelings, anything that would reconstitute my ennui in a written form to keep me occupied for at least the next three hours.
.
(Forgive my cold fingers. They fail to grasp the enormity of what my ballpoint pen can do on other occasions)
.
.
.
.
1st hour-and-a-half
.
.
I willed it to stop but it wouldn't,
that which coerced an involvement
transcending a physical nature.
.
One cannot occupy space at the same time as another
given a form that needs its own planet.
Even as the Earth shifts its plates
ending the meals of flesh and molten rocks,
the air around thickens with its thoughts
a whisper for every attempt
a ghost for every dead person
reaching out into the vast distance,
a cry for the connections that linger.
.
It is without a doubt that there lives
hope inside the boiling center.
The revolutions that create their creatures,
the tenacity of longing that molds the plantations.
.
And it is here
on top of a misplaced glacier
that the willingness to stop
had been inaccurately personified.
.
.
.
.
2nd hour-and-a-half
.
.
I willed it to stop
how fruits keep their sweetness on the second bite
when their skins had already been peeled off ,
freshly exposing the grainy detail of their tissues.
Without skins, most fruits have the same color, unshapely,
that become brown and mature with the air.
.
I hold on to the seeds that were fastened
to the ovaries, planning
to bury them beside my own grave.
They would live on my hands and grow strong
like my bones,
they would cling to my ribs when the young roots
wrap themselves around the soil below my sternum.
.
A new tree shall bear new fruits
and they will feed on the graves of other men.
.
.
.