The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

so I noticed that we both drink coffee.
just like anyone, we both like ours a certain way.
i like mine sweeter, with just the aftertaste of coffee there.
caramel, sugar, creamer.
i think about when i’ll have my next cup, and the idea of it alone makes me happy.
i don’t care what time of day i have it, i almost always have a cup.
i make time for my coffee.
it might be safe to say i think you like your coffee black.
you might add just the smallest touch to soften its bitter taste, but never too much.
sometimes i think you just pour it and carry on, as though it’s nothing important at all.
as though all it is, is just some quick fix.
like you just want to get it over with.
we drink it in two different ways.
i drink it slowly.
i note every flavor in every sip, i enjoy it.
i note the warmth it brings me.
i like it all hours of the day.
you drink it quickly.
quicker than me, at least.
you don’t care if it burns your tongue, or perhaps you’re used to the pain.
you accept it.
you never let it last, you move on to something else soon after.
i lay in your bed, watching your eyes as they skim the screen in front of you.
your mind is somewhere else.
i savor the moments you look my way, if even for a second, and smile at me.
i wonder if you even notice them.
i feel your laugh vibrate my bones, making the hair on my arms stand on end.
do i make you feel at all?
i reflect on it every time i drink my coffee.
i think about it with each and every sip, taking my time.
something tells me that you don’t do the same.
after all, it's just coffee.
but i put my all into this coffee.
i think you like your coffee black.

A hard hit.
      
        Smoke hangs
low, slowly slithering
       from a cracked smile.
Her vexed and vacant
       visage is frozen
for a moment...

and her glossy eyes, glazed
      with frigid gloom, dilate.
Expelling expired air
      she hacks in exoneration,
as if some spirit's
       clutch surrendered
her soul, shaking
       her skeletal frame
in a passionate
       fit of unbridled hate.

She relaxes in her recliner...

       relief.

But there’s always laundry to be done
To do more, I slowly lose the will
All this laundry will never be done

This morning to the river, thought I’d be gone
To catch a big trout is a great thrill
But there’s always laundry to be done

I’m your captive, laundry, consider the battle won
Folding and folding, the monotony kills
All this laundry will never be done

Sometimes I think I’ll escape this prison
Wearing what? If all my clothes are at goodwill...
But there’s always laundry to be done
All this laundry will never be done

I have some wisdom I must impart,
It will save you from an aching heart:

Don’t fall for merely words of praise;
Actions speak louder than accolades.
Although looks are what draw you in,
Beauty should be deeper than skin.
Jests and musings are well and fine,
But gentleness soothes every time.
Lies—deceit, will find you often,
Ensure your instincts are sharpened.
Only time can tell if things will last;
Always leave the past in the past.
Here I’ll leave a parting shot,
Recall this when you feel distraught:
You are stronger than you could know,
When put to the test your strengths show.
Be true to heart, no matter what;
When life gets down, pick your chin up.
So, go! Don’t forget to be brave,
I’ll always be proud of you, Little Grace.