time slips from my fingers when i count each passing day that passes by like passerbys on a busy street walking past me, my disillusioned form an escaped daydream from a chronic sleepwalker a recurring thought
the clinking of atoms like drinking glasses the passage of space things don't make sense nowadays never really did
i'm just a ghost with no body to call home translucent and vague people watching forever forever a thought bubble in a lonely man's world.
I walk up to the counter ready to place an order to go. With coffee and cookie in tow, i head to my favorite spot and get ready for the show. 3..2..1 let's go! What's the show you ask? I don't know! It's different every day and plays whether the sky is blue or gray. It could be a traffic jam, a man trying to wash people's cars, someone getting arrested, or even a guy in a costume saying he's an alien from mars. Whatever plays that day, it never gets old. I get to learn about the people of my city while staying out of the cold
My 50th poem! This poem was inspired by someone suggesting writing a poem about something you would see in a coffee shop.
I wonder, Do you hold others To the same exacting standard As your razor-sharp bangs? Is that why I've never Heard your voice? Why I've never seen your mouth Form any other expression than that Pretty, perfect grimace? "You have beautiful eyes," I want to say; But they remain downcast, Accentuating your general Aura of discomfort.
From the back of the line— Well, second to the back— I see her there; She is beautiful: Piercing blue eyes, Wavy brunette, Sharp, cute nose, Striking chin; She is beautiful Like the other two she is with— Yet with the melancholy in her jewel-eyes, More so.
She is much prettier Than your average third-wheel; And yet there she stands, Waving a dismissive hand At the offer of her two friends— A couple, hands all over each other; It is difficult to tell Whose hands are whose— To pay for her coffee; She pays for her own.