A sip of coffee dark and black
Caffeine enough for a heart attack.
And in the corner a man sits and writes
Half-eaten pastry, taking in the sights.

The man looks over thick-rimmed glasses
Putting people into social classes.
He stares at girls much too young
Thinking of songs to be sung.

******* brewing, God he begs
That he could be between their legs
If they just came to talk to him
The would be slaves to his whim.

He's a writer, so he could write
A poem about love at first sight.
Ensnare the girls in wordy webs
As ****** tension flows and ebbs.

He sees me watching, loses focus
On catching girls in his hocus pocus.
Gives me a quick discerning look
Then writes furiously in his book.

Angrily I begin to see
He must be writing about me
What is it that he puts down
While I continue to frown?

I have to know what's in his head
Aside from those girls in his bed.
I toss my coffee in the bin
On my way to fix his stupid grin.

"Is there something I should know?"
I ask as his eyes gleam and glow.
He just smirks and looks away
No longer do I want to play.

I look down at the empty page
But I can't fathom, cannot gauge
The fact that there is nothing there
I didn't matter, he didn't care.

My life is worthless, not enough
I don't have the right stuff.
To even be a subject for
The man now walking out the door.

Defeated, I slump and ponder life
Feel the weighty presence of my knife.
And as I gaze at the coffee on the shelf
"Should I have a cup, or **** myself?"