Oh, the ineffectual deluded intellectual
Cream of the crop barstool philosopher
Yes, you are included
Potential does not excuse the fool
Nor does a place at the top
In debates at coffeeshops
Indicate a prowess that places beyond school
Unbound by reality is your perception
Of yourself as some exception
Some paragon of cool
Please proceed with your perspective
Surely there is no source better respected

i think we should
be allowed to cry
in coffeeshops

or any other place
when, even in public,
we are so overcome

with  f e e l i n g

that it spills over
maybe into our
nighttime coffee

anywhere
we finally feel
quiet, calm, safety

wash over us
briefly,
for no good reason

what's the use in
sitting there, alone
working, reading

drinking things with
stupid names and pretending
we have it all together

i think we should
celebrate overflowing
which is how i've always

really felt about
crying, anyway
it's all so much

just to exist in a world
with everything to experience
in so little time

and it's really
no wonder our delicate
little vessels

can't handle it
all without some
overflow

what's the point
in doing it all and never
letting yourself be full of it

so full that it
spills, runs, drips
from your insides

because there's simply
not enough room for
you to hold it all

i want it all
even if it stings
even when it

really, really, hurts
like deep down in
my bones hurts

and i want the rest
especially when it
feels like my chest

will explode if i
even think of inhaling
another bit of life

i want to cry because
everything hurts so much
even the best parts

i think we should just
let each other be open,
maybe a little too open

what does that
even mean anyway?

i think we should
be allowed to cry
in coffeeshops.

Quite a few years from now,
my daughter will be twelve.
And all her friends will start
to think about things like
first kisses and winter dances,
and I know she will ask me
what my first love had been like.
And when that happens,
I'm going to smile
(though it may be bittersweetly)
as I remember
driving around aimlessly with you
singing along to bad radio stations
and exploring our town
to find the best local coffeeshops.
I'll remember nights
in our high school arts building
when nobody else was around
looking at the newest pictures
the photography class pinned up,
and how gentle you were
whenever our lips met.
I'll remember how no matter
how close you held me,
I always wanted it to be closer.
I'll remember exactly the way
that your favorite scarf smelled,
and the safety I felt
when you'd pull me into your arms.

I don't know what else will happen
between today and the day my daughter asks,
but whenever it is,
the answer to that question
will always be you—
so I want you to know
I can't thank you enough
for a story that makes me glad
I let myself fall in love with you.

In little coffeeshops
By the back corner, far from the exits
But near the little hall leading to the bathroom
At a time set by a large window
The poet, his soul filled with words and reasons to say them
But unsure how to convey them
Can observe the nerves and synapses
Converging in this single axis
The windowside throne, the great looking glass
Provides a view of every soul to pass

Through the door to the core of any good café
The front register
Where they serve the junkies
Their first no cream no sugar fix of the day
The register ******* this sunrise shift stands tall and wears
A pleasant smile
Like a suit of armor
For the fractures frayed and loosened pieces
Of her 65 hours a week between two jobs psyche

From his back corner vantage point
The poet sees this early morning warrior
And watches her adversaries approach
The sleep deprived and the caffeine dependent
The men in suits with leather briefcases
Hustling and bustling through self inflicted exhaustion
Work force revenants who begin to shamble through the door
Out of the early morning mists at about 5:30
just as the world is shrugging of the shroud of night

In his seat of power, the poet, lord of the room
Can see, despite the dim lights of the coffeeshop
These early birds, gaunt and hungry like vultures
Standing shoulder to shoulder with the last of the night owls
Shabby old things with ruffled feathers
Too tired to sleep or simply without a roost.
Their re rimmed eyes provide a window
Through which a sovereign of the word
May glance upon their tired souls

Yes from that lovely back corner
The poet is a king, a lord in noble regality
Reshaping reality
Sitting in the back of any coffee shop
In Phoenix Arizona
In America
In the world
In this whole great evergrowing span of universe
And turning people into words.

you’re not
hot summer evenings,
brisk fall mornings,
rainy winter afternoons,
or warm spring nights.
you’re not
the mystery boy in coffeeshops,
the faux prince in a fairytale,
the storm, the calm before it, or the disaster after it.
you’re not some metaphor for loneliness
or some simile for fulfillment.

you are, however,
the messages on my voicemail,
the last voice I hear before I sleep,
and the whispered confessions over the phone that I cling to in my moments of need.
you’re working hands and a strong back,
a soft soprano and bright eyes,
a glowing smile and a watchful gaze.
you’re easily moved to tears and
you like staying up late as much as you like sleep and
you’re allergic to cats and got stuck as the middle child.

you are too good to exist,
but too real to not.

I like airplanes and photography and white bed sheets. I like the sun and I like the first snowfall. I like the oceans and the idea of it being infinite. I like listening to strangers on public transport while pretending to be engrossed in a book. I like you. I like writing and reading and forgetting about everything. I like traveling and exploring. I like watching lonely strangers in small bookstores or coffeeshops and the way they stare out of windows, I like imagining what their stories are, what they've done and where they're going. I like men that dress well and the smell of coffee. I like the smell of the forest after the rain. I like the sound of a shutter and a typewriter. I like to dream.

she is sunrises
and sunsets;
she is music
and melodies;
she is poetry in coffeeshops
and our sweaty palms clasped together
in the car on backroads at night.
she is shy laughter
and movie marathons.
she is the reason
I can't stop writing.
she is all of these things,
but she is not mine.

*–w.b.h. // i never learned how to define you

I massaged my temples
And cursed my heart.
I loved you,
And yet the pages remained blank,
The pen still held ink.
Quick romances in coffeeshops
Always found themselves
Immortalised
But you,
My one, my only,
Could drift away forever
With no memory to tie you down.
Only a broken poet
Is unable to write about the one they love.

You are a dangerous lexicon.
Excitement and passion wrapped up in confusion;
You baffle me to the depths of my being.
You can't find your way into my poetry
Because how can I fit a poem within itself?
You may lay your head against my breast,
Press your perfect lips against my neck,
Stain my shirts with your tears,
**** my sorrows with your smiles,
But you are too pure for any of my words.

I am a poet, but my love for you is beyond the reach of poetry.

I don’t love you anymore.

I love hot cups of coffee, and cold cups as well. I love feeling summer grass between my toes. I love long showers. I love curling my hair until it frames my face with red vines of ivy. I love my bed in the morning, before the sun peeks through my curtains. I love petting dogs as I pass them in sidewalks. I love eye contact with pretty strangers in coffeeshops and bookstores. I love the echo of an acoustic guitar in a small room. I love trying new food that my mother didn’t cook when I was a kid. I love the one dress that makes me feel beautiful. I love the voice of the skinny English kid in the concert venue. I love fireflies in the summer. I love fireplaces and afghans and good books. I love red lipstick. I love the dozens of empty notebooks stockpiled in my house. I love maps and I love globes. I love doing kind things for strangers to see them smile. I love comfortable sweaters. I love baking desserts. I love drinking more coffee.

I don’t love you anymore.

She wore a fur coat
Made of a lame prophet
'Cause she was blind.

Carried my weight on her shoulders
I suggested she open her eyes
The rest, I had memorized.
So At least when I died
She was always on my mind.

I was a terrible navigator
In the court of god, convicted sinner.
She had a hunger for shape shifters
I fed her.

Soon as the car started,
we parked it.
Leaned the seats back, fogged the doors
I stared at her collarbone
We didn't go far.

Who could have predicted
Her body in a Broken mirror
I was her seer for two years
Shame I couldn't see her

This all could of been different.
Shepard said to lamb
Follow the dog, He knows the road
figured god assumed
My soul was cold
Her soul was coal that warmed the home.
The hearth, the meat, the lame, the blind.
The Golden brown, leaves outside.
The autumn trees like Coffeeshops
call out to me

She Hollows out our her dowry
pollen spread like a dandelion.
Polluted whole cities with seeds

Memories and libraries
The chalk outlines in my mind
All that was left of these things.

So whether you fall or fly
Girl, I'll be singing

If nobody listens, I'll paint the clouds.
If no stare is lifted, I'll shake the ground.
If everyones sleeping,
I'll give them something to dream about.

If nobody sees it, We already lived
a life worth dreaming
so who gives
a **** who pays attention.

Just let the lame guide the blind.
Just let the lame guide the blind
Just let the lame guide the blind

Often we tell children not to speak to strangers
We hold that accountable in our mature lives
Passing the passerbys with a faint hello
Subtle smiles in coffeeshops
Where no one dares to go
Weaving the wonderful world wide web
Lush with poets and muses, and music too
Likes on statuses a passive aggressive sup'
Friends among friends, can see you as well
So we like our things, bemused in silence
A comment left, do you see me now?
A fondness grows through likes and things
Strangers or friends? As it may seem
So through a message a nightlong chat
Weve told some secrets, stored in our hearts
For when strangers come together
On likeness, life, hearbreak, and self
We are strangers no longer, stuck on a shelf
And so i urge you, to hear my plea
Think of these things when you go out to eat
A chance hello, how are you? we begrudgingly speak
May be the best for us... even you or me.
Though stranger it seems we have some common ground
No longer a stranger, but a friend now.