A Poem About a Coffee Shop Girl
Words behind closed lips
And shifting eyes avoid being read.
Fifty cents for a morning refill,
BIG SURPRISE, I leave with barely a word said.
I wish she could see me – Then again
I wish I could see her.
How can we see anyone in this world?
Give her my skin, my muscles, my bones
She’d possess my reflection which is no more me
Than my name, so what is in a name?
The answer remains the same
And this revelation tastes stale to the brain.
Something derived from nothing
Is really nothing after all, except
A faith in a something.
In other words;
IthinkthereforeIamsimplyduetobeingawaremoreawareth ansomebutnotasmuchasotherswhichisasusefulastakingt wostepsforwardandtwostepsback.
Another fifty cents another refill
So far a dollar total
And a penny to anyone
Who’ll let me give them my thoughts-
I’ve no need for them
They’re not a product of my own.
I’ve found they’ve been outsourced
Coming back as a daily loan
Which has accrued interest.
How long must I pay?
It seems unclear from what I can see.
Everyone lives and dies
All the while continually buying
As the loan sharks jockey
For better real estate.
The willing spenders
Receive the premium spaces.
Their Kiosks setup in the unconscious
Whisper suggestions seen as needs
By our whored out minds.
There I go tumbling down the rabbit hole,
Allthewaydownmymomsvoiceechoingechoingininmymyhead headyougot toloveyourselfbeforeyoucanlovesomeoneelsewhichIcan notseemtodointhisHalloweencostume.
Another fifty cents another refill,
And a friendly welcome back
As I go to alter
The sense of self I received.
A little coffee with my sugar,
And add some cream;
It no longer resembles
A cup of coffee.
Playing my own personal game of Kerplunk
I attempt to grab a stirrer
She smiles. Whisking me away in thought.
My eyes drinking her in
Till it over saturates my cells;
Intoxicates my mind.
Allowing me to think clearly for the first time.
After all, reasons suppose to be slave to the passions,
Re: A Poem About a Coffee Shop Girl
This is kind of my existentialist poem. There are lines from other authors-"what is in a name" that's Juliet from Shakespeare. "I think therefore I am" Descartes. Reasons suppose to be slave to the passions, is a thought taken from Hume who said, "Reason ought to always be slave to the passions".
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