coffeehouses and bookshops are obsolete and underrated
i always seem to feel the most comfortable and loved
while the wooden brown furniture and smells of roasting beans
envelop me in transparent steaming tendrils of intimacy

reaching inside to find my inner poetic self
coming up with all sorts of ostentatious phrases
to make my prose sound extremely extravagant
and therefore myself a satisfied troubadour
chronicling my ****** escapades through life and love

agromania
heliotrope
pavonine
quinnat
vorpal
zydeco

don’t i sound special?
It’s the coffee fumes that are finally getting to me
Caressing the recesses of my brain, drawing out streams
Of words that which i do not know the meaning of
Can i be sure they’re even real?
Can i be sure of anything anymore?