I sit and feel... Different.
Some would have inspiration, some would have peace,
And some would be able to think about anything with
That clanking of cups and the whirr of a coffee machine.
But I can't describe how strange I feel sitting here.
Maybe the people sitting here aren't supposed to be.
The snobs giggling and gossiping in the corner,
The waft of marijuana coming in from just outside of the door.
This isn't a normal place. And I
Am not a stereotypical poet.
I write paintings in my mind and draw poems with my lips.
And, right now, they aren't encasing the rim of a coffee mug.
I don't have the money.
And I don't have the rhyme scheme to
Make fun of those who don't get it.