Coffee House Blues at 21, The Blues Part I

The average writer envisions his life,

By now, would simply be,

Some sort of sweet, honey- like paradise,

Dripping of nothing but the very-sticky-best.

 

The average writer lies flat-chested

Atop a frozen, silver pond,

Encapsulated by snowcapped, skyscraping evergreen,

Waiting to be embraced in the woolen hands

From someone who understands.

 

A year’s grace of life,

Perhaps, reveals a shortcut to a dream

That most live out their time,

And never achieve.

 

Writing

At a coffee shop, traditionally

Drinking another cup o’ joe

With under the couch change,

The average writer thinks his writing

Would have, should have-

By now unfolded itself unto the public,

Like the newspapers that stained readers’ fingertips.

 

The average writer’s needs,
Word Trains from formed ideas,

Enough inky coal to leap off

Tracks of pages,

To chug up curious sleeves,

Of the average writer

Into their tunneling eyes,

To drop off a bomb of completion.

Alas-

Oxen-like vigor and pristine diplomacy

Wilted as a dying orchid.

 

And all of this happens

When you get what you paid for;

Only, the average writer, like most of poor potential,

Could not afford any better than a cup o’ joe.

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