An Unoriginal

I find myself gazing at the things a million eyes have picked and pecked at, dissected a million times before.
Nothing wrong with a boring note that seems to say nothing new at all.
An unoriginal is sometimes all that I can be.
Sometimes it’s nice to wake up slip into some worn out shoes and walk the weary, wrinkled road that’s been walked a million times before.
I like the bumpy, rickety road and the played out clouds in the sky, and the everyday way the sun bids a color-filled goodbye, or rather cya later.
The leaves are yellow, red, green, the branches brown, gray spindly dead things and the skyscrapers are twice as tall and domineering as the trees and half as beautiful, but still beautiful in that same, boring, scraping way.
The red on the stop sign stays red and I stop.
I’m boring, mundane that way.
But I don’t mind.
I can still go anywhere I want to go and stay however long.
I can live among the throngs of recycling people, recycling their days to wake up the same, and I can see the beauty, something worth recycling, and I can do the same, or not.
It just depends the way I feel that day.
To do the same or make a change.
It seems so many set their minds it has to be one way.
An ever-changing or always-same-thing kind of way to live their lives.
Seems dreary, seems drab…
I’ve changed my mind.
I like them quite a lot.