Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. 
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, 
we ourselves flash and yearn, 
and moreover my mother told me as a boy 
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored 
means you have no

Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no 
inner resources, because I am heavy bored. 
Peoples bore me, 
literature bores me, especially great literature, 
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes 
as bad as Achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. 
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag 
and somehow a dog 
has taken itself & its tail considerably away 
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving 
behind: me, wag.

Source: unix.cc.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/Berryman.14.html