dull poetry by dull girl poet

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Sunday,
I forget who I am.
I return home with a forgotten feeling, 
a familiarity - of which, i suppose, i am glad.

Well, how dull it all is.
This city did not change much.
The sermons are the same and the people - 
self-righteous, self-important, boring and pompous.

Then, well,
I got so busy - no time to think.
My womanhood in the making as the womb prepares for a baby

how dull.
how awful.
how perpetually annoying.

If i were to tear my womb out,
will they see beyond the purpose of procreating?

well, i know who i am - 
uncertain - 
well, i know how dull life can be!
all i enjoy are the pockets of joy 
that people can afford me.

I declare it is enough
oh but then,
the spectacle i become!
so I un-declare,
groaning,
ruminating on what I have done.

Monday,
I forget who I was.
I do not know the bandwidth of my feelings.

Yet I know what they will be made into,
The world still so unkind to women and their grieving.

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