Staring down the half-hearted-froth
of a dwindling cappuccino –
the hum of espresso buzzing
through my frazzled brain –
The faint lure of hazy words,
still just outside my grasp –
(Perhaps this calls for more espresso)
The familiar cliché of an un-artist.
Overpriced coffee shop;
succulents placed on the table just so,
a notebook of incomplete poems,
& the sirenic lure of free wifi.
So much pressure, PRESSURE!
To create,
to complete,
to churn out
performance-worthy-poetry,
(To obtain more espresso)
But the cappuccino calls –
Fall into a bubble-fueled-daydream,
anything to disengage from
my worn-out-reality
When was the last time
I wrote anything worth reading?
Something precisely profound
in all of its prolific perfection?
(At least I have espresso)