there is something special about coffee really
foul black liquid that seeps into my soul
reawakening some deeper artist me
that reminds me of my dreams
and days when my journal was always with me
leather bound pages that soak up
all the angst-ridden bad concoctions
of half-rhyme and metaphor
that spill out of me
usually while I'm only vaguely aware
of what is being written
and later go back and love every line
or think silently to myself
wow. what trite crap.
but at least I maintain my path
seeking always that perfect prose
saying nothing, yet everything
in neat little meter and foot
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