Coffee Poem
Poem
Outside the birds sung in the trees. I spent
the morning writing. After a spark caught
my pen and a fire ripped across the page. I
looked at the poem I had just etched. It
was my greatest composition yet. The
stanzas had beauty, the words had
rhythm, the title had grace, every
bit a work of art. Right as I placed
the finishing touches and final revisions
on my masterpiece, my wrist caught
the rim of the mug that sat next to
my notebook. The entire page flooded
into an ocean of brown, the ink
smeared into ripples, and the lined paper
evolved into a caffeine filled
oil on canvas.
Mentally, I still had the poem. But
when I rewrote it, the spark refused to light.
Nothing read the same, the words flowed
on the dull side of life, and the stanzas looked
jagged and messy. I guess somewhere
the Gods didn’t think the poem
was that great after all. I
couldn’t help but
agree.
I cleaned up
the mess I made
and started on the
next page. Hoping to catch
another spark that would
carry me onto the
doorstep of greatness.
