Seema 5h

My hands shake
As I try to touch his head
To see if his awake
Or really dead

He tied my legs and hands
So I do not run away
Stumbled over empty cans
On his way

Laying infront of me
Face down near my feet
It's almost impossible to see
As from my seat

A kidnapper by fate
Hiding from angry cops
He's worthy of hate
But why he sobs

As hours passed, I saw him move
With teary eyes, he came closer
Untied me to prove
He's not a bad guy, he's not a loser

Sat me free, he told me to go
I wanted to help him out
He wouldn't let me so
I ran off hearing his painful shout

I came back in awhile
He was laying on the floor
Rain was heavy and wild
So I closed the door

I treated his cuts and paced bandaids
He told me to leave as it was unsafe
Cops everywhere doing their raids
I am with my coffee, sitting now in a cafe

Writing this scripty poem as it plays
Cafe closing soon, the manager says
Enough of writes tonight, I rest my ink
Till another write I come to think...


©sim

Imagination within imagination, spilling off my mind.

mornings--
they aren't always
pretty.

sometimes,
it's grey
like the rain
going over
your head.

at other times,
it's complete
darkness,
like the difficulties
of life.

how ironic it is,
that bitterness
can make it
better.

Megan 19h

You’re like hot coffee on a hotter morning,
drinking in the details of every summer day
wishing you were here on unwritten postcards
from towns you promised you’d visit;
and all those little cafés we promised we’d go to
are all closing down and posting promise signs on their doors
that they’ll reopen soon.

You’re like out-of-date serotonin
and medication that I keep forgetting to take
telling me that it’ll make me better if I keep coming to appointments in my pyjamas
and visiting my house to tell me that everything will be okay
and I’m in my dressing gown mumbling along that sure, I’ll believe you,
can I go and finish my book now?

Neither of us spoke French,
but you used to call me ‘mon ange’,
and now I’m just an outdated postcard that you couldn’t even be bothered to turn over
and maybe I should speak to you in a language as dead as we are –
saying ‘please take me right here and now’ in Ancient Greek
but I’m Patroclus,
and yes, before you ask, I’d die for you.

Find the line that I drew and erase it
and boil the kettle for another cup of hot coffee
but leave the water stagnant and never pour one out for us;
I’ll go to a bar and drink whatever
and dance to whatever
and flirt with whoever
and go home alone.
And you’ll reply to me two days later
and we’ll talk meaningless talk
without a hint of French.

I’m not asking you to save me,
I’m just asking you to acknowledge that I exist,
that I’m alive at the same time as you;
I’m a pre-packaged bomb and you could set me off
if only you’d turn me on and let me burn.
And you’re hovering over the trigger
saying “not yet”
and I’m just waiting;
because we’re not dead yet
but there’s all the time in the world to fix that.

Feelin' the morning breeze
Fall's coming says the wind
Smoke's been paying the lease
as the coffee bean aroma spins

With a cigarette in hand
Friday ideal fills the land
We search for our true friend
as the bustle of the day begins

Sand 2d

I lie awake
awaiting sleep
I lie in wait
For a moment's peace

But this restless energy will not leave me be
No wide yawns or heavy lids will come to set me free

"Sleep, sleep"
I whisper, in tune to my heart beat
"Drink me"
The coffee at my bedside tempts me

I close my eyes and start to count sheep
"Sleep, sleep" I whisper softly

"Fuck it" I eventually groan
reaching for my coffee

Drank too much coffee. Cannot sleep

If I had a coffee shop,
I'd call it The Lullaby.
There'd be sleepy yellow light,
And beer mugs full of
Iced tea.

I'd know all of the town
Gossip,
And hug the people who
Need it.
I'd have sandwiches
For rainy days,
And warm pastries
For snowy days,
And Potato salad
For hot days.

If I had a coffee shop,
Old men would sit at the bar,
Sipping their simple coffees,
And whining about the weather,
And the problems
With their cars.
If I had a coffee shop,
Old women would tell me
My cakes are made
The way their mothers used to
Make them,
And I'd serve them tea
In thriftstore
Missmatch teacups.

I'd fill my little Lullaby,
With work by unknown artists,
And strange trinkets I took
A fancy to,
And have books
About old actors,
And books meant to be
Read in a crowd
So you can imagine
The lives around you.

If I owned a coffee shop,
I'd play songs from musicals,
And garnish things
With mint leaves
And strawberries.
I'd have madalines
And my mother's coffee cake,
And her soup too.

If I had a coffee shop,
Maybe I could meet you.

Hey hey, hey hey
whata beautiful day
My my, my my
no need to wonder why
Wake up, wake up
there's coffee in the cup
Laugh hard, laugh long
sing each, and every song
Open your mind, open your eyes
today may be
the very day
you
die

It's not measured, it's lived :)

There's a rhinosaurus under my sofa!
There's a hippo asleep in my bath.
The elephants packing my pans in his trunk
And the hyaena's just having a laugh.

The cats stalking mice in the bedroom
The swans looking haughty and proud
All I need now is some lions
Oh dear, outside there's a crowd.

I knew I should give up prosseco
And ripe cheese at night is  a no
I've made up my list all I want is my cat
The rest will just have to go.

I've woken up now with my coffee
All is right with the world once again
I shall call up my feminist nature
And put all of the blame upon men!

Saw him at the counter
Before my first sip
Instantly caffeinated
When he smiled at me

©LadyofRavenhill 2017

I ordered coffee
But then she walked in the shop
Espresso ignored

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