The stillness of the espresso bar,
the quiet rumble of the heater,
the silence of the fresh baked pasteries,
waiting to be bought.
The sweet taste of coffee
as it slithers down my throat,
my body fighting the poison
I've shoved into my stomach.
The simplistic way
people slowly intoxicate themselves
with things that are only good
to the extent of the tastebud.
The chill that climbs down your arm
when you reach into the freezer
to buy a cold lemonade,
freshly made, the package says.
The package lies,
it's bittersweet lies.
As It sweetly whispers in your ear,
pursuading you to drink.
You start to pull the crushed twenty
out of your ripped jean pocket,
blinded by the thought
of a sweet rush of pleasure.
The people from the world
just waking up,
opening their eyes
to a burst of light.
The small faint ring of the bell
as the people walk in,
all carrying the crumpled
twenties in their pockets.
The sweet sensation
is invading our minds,
whispering, pursuading
our clouded morning thoughts.
Observing in the corner,
sits an old woman. Watching,
waiting, wishing that people could
see the bittersweet consequences.
8am coffeehouse,
the morning rush begins.
The intoxicating feeling
of coffee invading the mind.
YOU ARE READING
Teacups and Pens
PoetryA collection of poetry from my mind. Take from it what you will.
