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"frappuccino" poems
The question has to be asked, “How hard can it be, for a man to get a decent cup of tea”? How can people get something so simple so wrong? A question that has vexed me for ever so long. Let me be clear, lest there be any confusion I’m not into tea leaves or these fancy new infusions Nor herbal or green, earl grey or the rest A good plain cup of tea is simply the best! I wonder why it is that people bother to ask When they will not put any real effort into the task Yes they are careful to ask how you take your tea But what you get is something different, entirely If there is one thing that really gets to me It is being made a half cup of tea I always opt for a mug because there’s never enough in a cup But for some reason they seem incapable of filling it up! After just two mouthfuls, Surprise! It is all gone! I hate always having to ask for another one All the effort they made has gone to waste The whole experience leaving a very bad taste. Making tea is a formula, very hard to get wrong why so often served weak when I always ask for strong? A small drop of milk please, how hard can it be? But I often get tea in my milk, not milk in my tea I do like my sugar and to tell the truth I do possess an awfully sweet tooth “three and a bit” I say when they ask But is stirring it such an impossible task? How easy can it be? Just move the ****** spoon You were just standing there, what else were you doing? And to see all that sugar sitting there at the end Would drive the most sane person round the bend Another thing I get really mad about Is when people do not take the teabag out And though the cup appears to be full to the top You take the bag out and watch the level drop You might think it’s funny but it’s certainly not What to do with a teabag that is dripping hot? A cup of tea is supposed to help you relax Not be the cause of minor heart attacks And the biggest evil, by far the worst Is those who serve tea, knowing the teabag has burst At the end you get a mouthful of leaves and grit I do love my tea but wonder if it is worth it. It got to the stage where I considered drinking coffee But I was bamboozled by the variety available to me Mocha or latte, perhaps a frappuccino, Or maybe an espresso or a cappuccino No, the idea of drinking coffee just left me cold all I really wanted was a cup of tea truth be told, Though I have been accused of taking this issue too seriously There is nothing in the world quite like…. a decent cup of Tea!
0
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 4:11 AM UTC
Tea Minus 10, 9, 8, 7, 6....
The question has to be asked, “How hard can it be, for a man to get a decent cup of tea”? How can people get something so simple so wrong? A question that has vexed me for ever so long. Let me be clear, lest there be any confusion I’m not into tea leaves or these fancy new infusions Nor herbal or green, earl grey or the rest A good plain cup of tea is simply the best! I wonder why it is that people bother to ask When they will not put any real effort into the task Yes they are careful to ask how you take your tea But what you get is something different, entirely If there is one thing that really gets to me It is being made a half cup of tea I always opt for a mug because there’s never enough in a cup But for some reason they seem incapable of filling it up! After just two mouthfuls, Surprise! It is all gone! I hate always having to ask for another one All the effort they made has gone to waste The whole experience leaving a very bad taste. Making tea is a formula, very hard to get wrong why so often served weak when I always ask for strong? A small drop of milk please, how hard can it be? But I often get tea in my milk, not milk in my tea I do like my sugar and to tell the truth I do possess an awfully sweet tooth “three and a bit” I say when they ask But is stirring it such an impossible task? How easy can it be? Just move the ****** spoon You were just standing there, what else were you doing? And to see all that sugar sitting there at the end Would drive the most sane person round the bend Another thing I get really mad about Is when people do not take the teabag out And though the cup appears to be full to the top You take the bag out and watch the level drop You might think it’s funny but it’s certainly not What to do with a teabag that is dripping hot? A cup of tea is supposed to help you relax Not be the cause of minor heart attacks And the biggest evil, by far the worst Is those who serve tea, knowing the teabag has burst At the end you get a mouthful of leaves and grit I do love my tea but wonder if it is worth it. It got to the stage where I considered drinking coffee But I was bamboozled by the variety available to me Mocha or latte, perhaps a frappuccino, Or maybe an espresso or a cappuccino No, the idea of drinking coffee just left me cold all I really wanted was a cup of tea truth be told, Though I have been accused of taking this issue too seriously There is nothing in the world quite like…. a decent cup of Tea!
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52
Atomic energy is a good thing contemplated the good scientist But only for us good people to forget Lincoln's, Hemingway's and Madame Curie's silent voices echoes from the sidewalk Where people idly passes by; lost in tall low fat Frappuccino’s Looking and hoping then ultimately wishing for a visit from Benjamin Franklin Unwittingly employed by all the dead presidents These days’ people know the price of everything But the value of nothing Makes me gallivant; my own memory warehouse As I pose this question towards my own psyche; What is the worst thing I have ever done? In the name of personal achievement career elevation and prosperity All everyone ever wants to be is successful rich and richer Oppenheimer colleague put our modern society in to perfect perspective Post detonation of the Trinity project - after the first nuclear test When he gracefully quoted "Now we are all son of *******
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Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:05 PM UTC
People (we are all son of *******
gracing the streets, with her pink stilleto and a pricy frappuccino— she barely sips they can't take their eyes off her, well, who would? even i, i can't. she has class and elegance, money, power— what else is missing? oh, i know, the reason i stared at her for a minute. i just can't forget, how unbothered she is when she threw the empty cup on the ground. i wonder why she doesn't use her bills to buy some manners? oh wait— i forgot-- that's not for sale.
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Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 1:11 AM UTC
not for sale
The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, who brings chills down my spine every time. Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside, Especially when he leaves me high and dry in the morning unexpectedly. He’ll remind me that I’m alive, And make me feel Zen for a split second, Then he splits in a second. Or The Caramel Macchiato, Tall with a sophisticated smile And unrealistically hazel eyes That read “bello” around his irises. With a shot of expression— He’s never afraid to speak how he feels. But that’s just the Italian in him. Or The Pumpkin Spice Latte, The most popular guy. He’ll warm me up when I’m cold; And make me feel like I’m his only one, He’ll tell me everything I want to hear, Then he’ll disappear without a sign— At least until the next year, Only to continue the same cycle over again. Or The Cappuccino, He’s got a strong mind like those French roast blends With a secret soft side. He speaks with fluidity and is As charismatic as the rest. He’s a morning person nonetheless, And won’t leave me loveless In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does. Or The Teavana Chai Tea Latte He sounds fancy, does he not? He’s different to say the least, Layered with many spices, And from cinnamon trees, He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty. Gentle, yet fatuously energetic. Soft spoken, yet bold, He doesn’t have to do much To have me sold to his trance. Now for me to decide what I want As more people file in, deliberating the same Line up as I, but they have more to Choose from. Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go With last one.
0
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
The (Men)u
The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino, who brings chills down my spine every time. Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside, Especially when he leaves me high and dry in the morning unexpectedly. He’ll remind me that I’m alive, And make me feel Zen for a split second, Then he splits in a second. Or The Caramel Macchiato, Tall with a sophisticated smile And unrealistically hazel eyes That read “bello” around his irises. With a shot of expression— He’s never afraid to speak how he feels. But that’s just the Italian in him. Or The Pumpkin Spice Latte, The most popular guy. He’ll warm me up when I’m cold; And make me feel like I’m his only one, He’ll tell me everything I want to hear, Then he’ll disappear without a sign— At least until the next year, Only to continue the same cycle over again. Or The Cappuccino, He’s got a strong mind like those French roast blends With a secret soft side. He speaks with fluidity and is As charismatic as the rest. He’s a morning person nonetheless, And won’t leave me loveless In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does. Or The Teavana Chai Tea Latte He sounds fancy, does he not? He’s different to say the least, Layered with many spices, And from cinnamon trees, He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty. Gentle, yet fatuously energetic. Soft spoken, yet bold, He doesn’t have to do much To have me sold to his trance. Now for me to decide what I want As more people file in, deliberating the same Line up as I, but they have more to Choose from. Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go With last one.
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52
If I had a blog what would it be ? Would I blog about twitting? Tweet about texting? Text about bloging? Will I sip on an organic double frappuccino? Will I miss MJ? Will I have a tea cup Chihuahua? Will I hate the hills? Will I be dealing with bulimia? Watching TMZ? Liveing green? Will my iPhone my big sunglasses be in my louis vuitton handbag? Will all this be something to talk about? Will it still be "in"? Or will outher things that I hate take it's place? Will my blog be overrated? Or will only old ppl like it? Or will it be, anti-social anti-fashion I hate everything even myself self mutalating artsie fartsie wannabe rabel who are also AS over rated whatever... ((If I wred this blog, I'd hate it))
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Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 10:42 PM UTC
Did I just blog?
They ain't  got ***** They can't have ***** Ugh they always go to Starbucks and order a frappuccino **** them rich uppity white ******* get on my nerves." They all listen to One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer, "I really wish I had white girl hair." All white girls have to be this, have to do that, This is my average day at school. It's not true. I know because I am a white girl But I'm not your "typical" one, I listen to Pantera and Phish, I don't "always" go to Starbucks. And I have an *** thank you very much, I'm not rich, I'm not poor, I have the same anatomic structure as everybody else, I don't need to be singled out for something that isn't true about me. White people aren't the only that can have stereotypes made about them.
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Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
"Typical" White Girl
Buy the cheapest train ticket to a town you’ve never heard of. Get off at the fourth stop and go to the nearest bar. Flirt with the unattainable and fight the unbeatable. Once you’re kicked out, head to the nearest gas station. Stock up on Skittles, Starbucks frappuccino, powdered donuts and sour gummy worms. Talk to the guy behind the register about how much you love your friends, tolerate your mom but definitely not about how much you hate yourself. On your way out buy a cheap Polaroid camera and head to the local park. Ask people to take pictures of you in front of the fountain, weird trees, sitting on benches or laying in the grass. Look through the photos and smile, because this is you at your finest. Go to the movies and throw popcorn at every love scene. Visit a cathedral, sit in the last pew and just look up. I can guarantee the most breathtaking paintings will be up there, so drink it all in. Mail yourself a letter back home about all the little things that make you happy. Call your first love from a payphone and pour your heart out, even if it goes to voicemail. Go to a playground and swing until your feet touch the sky. Buy a homeless man a Happy Meal and listen to his life story. Invite the girl you met at the bar to a picnic under the stars. Ask her about forgotten dreams and do not go home with her. Visit the local library and write uplifting lyrics on Post-It Notes and stick them in your favorite books. Go find a lake or a river, a creek or whatever and look at your reflection. This is you, beautiful, talented, confident, one-of-a-kind you. Do as you please now. Swim, cry, or skip rocks. Then go home and forget everything you did, but remember everything you felt.
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Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
How to Lose (and Subsequently Find) Yourself
Buy the cheapest train ticket to a town you’ve never heard of. Get off at the fourth stop and go to the nearest bar. Flirt with the unattainable and fight the unbeatable. Once you’re kicked out, head to the nearest gas station. Stock up on Skittles, Starbucks frappuccino, powdered donuts and sour gummy worms. Talk to the guy behind the register about how much you love your friends, tolerate your mom but definitely not about how much you hate yourself. On your way out buy a cheap Polaroid camera and head to the local park. Ask people to take pictures of you in front of the fountain, weird trees, sitting on benches or laying in the grass. Look through the photos and smile, because this is you at your finest. Go to the movies and throw popcorn at every love scene. Visit a cathedral, sit in the last pew and just look up. I can guarantee the most breathtaking paintings will be up there, so drink it all in. Mail yourself a letter back home about all the little things that make you happy. Call your first love from a payphone and pour your heart out, even if it goes to voicemail. Go to a playground and swing until your feet touch the sky. Buy a homeless man a Happy Meal and listen to his life story. Invite the girl you met at the bar to a picnic under the stars. Ask her about forgotten dreams and do not go home with her. Visit the local library and write uplifting lyrics on Post-It Notes and stick them in your favorite books. Go find a lake or a river, a creek or whatever and look at your reflection. This is you, beautiful, talented, confident, one-of-a-kind you. Do as you please now. Swim, cry, or skip rocks. Then go home and forget everything you did, but remember everything you felt.
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24
Writing this poem in the corner of this coffee shop Two glass of grande-sized coffee Frappuccino, Mochaccino are just not enough I guess Seeing you walking around the room Talking, acting too beautifully to be remembered Touching the girl I would never want to be I am just who I am I suppose I am just not like her I suppose Putting your hands in the pocket of your dark blue Levi's jeans Stepping up high through the sole of your light grey Van's sneakers Laughing too much, talking too beautifully Smiling too seductively, brushing your hair too manly Am I just not enough for you, Darling? I've been waiting for quite a whole month just to see you physically Am I just not enough for you, Darling? I've been waiting for you 'til my eyes flooded by my own tears Am I just not enough for you, Darling? Am I just not enough for you, Darling?
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Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 2:35 AM UTC
Guess I am just not enough.
I do not have to meet you so I can say that you're beautiful. I know that you are, and I know that you are gentle, I know that you are kind, welcoming, and forgiving. I do not know but one day, maybe I'll meet you on a busy day as a patient or as a doctor, or maybe on a warm Saturday, as you call my name written on a venti frappuccino. All these uncertainties will eventually lead me to that one moment where I can say, "it makes sense now." Why I had to hold the wrong hands, why I had to lie in wrong rooms. One day, I'll wake up and look, there's the warmest smile in the world, with the softest eyes and gentlest touch. And he'll be angry at me sometimes, but never disrespectful, never violent. I will hold on to the many years that I will spend not knowing you. Until then, I will let everything to not make sense yet, and ready myself for the perfect moment.
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Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 11:32 AM UTC
To my Future Lover
My mother and I  met on Cupid.com I was thirteen and she was forty-five; but on her profile she was listed as twenty-nine. We agreed to meet at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon. The sun was out; it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting the dead, green earth and snake-like sidewalks. I sat in the far corner, my head in a book; every now and then peeking over the pages my finger bookmarked. I was reading ****** and I had not made it past the first page. Lo-Lee- Ta, or something rather. She arrived ten minutes later than the time we agreed on, but I wasn't angry. She offered to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined. We sat there for what seemed like a decade. I was too busy looking around; acting like I was admiring the art on the walls; and she was playing with her hands; humming to a popular female folk singer- songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers. 'I can go,' she said after the track finished. 'No, it's okay. Stay, please' I said. There was silence. 'It's been a while since I've seen you' she said. 'I know, I know' I said, 'You lied about your age. That's not cool' 'Sorry about that. I just didn't know if you'd like me if I was older than forty..' 'That's the entire point, no?' I interrupted. And I didn't notice she had bad posture until she started fidgeting with her hair; it was in a loose, unkempt bun. She tugged at the hair tie until it all fell down to her shoulders. I was finally relieved to see that I had a beautiful mother and soon suggested that we go to her place and talk about my childhood. She smiled, and made an attempt to grab the car keys she left on the table, but I was quicker. 'No,' I said laughing, 'I'm driving'. And that was the first time I ever took charge; and nothing has changed since.
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May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
Tommy Grimes
My mother and I  met on Cupid.com I was thirteen and she was forty-five; but on her profile she was listed as twenty-nine. We agreed to meet at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon. The sun was out; it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting the dead, green earth and snake-like sidewalks. I sat in the far corner, my head in a book; every now and then peeking over the pages my finger bookmarked. I was reading ****** and I had not made it past the first page. Lo-Lee- Ta, or something rather. She arrived ten minutes later than the time we agreed on, but I wasn't angry. She offered to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined. We sat there for what seemed like a decade. I was too busy looking around; acting like I was admiring the art on the walls; and she was playing with her hands; humming to a popular female folk singer- songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers. 'I can go,' she said after the track finished. 'No, it's okay. Stay, please' I said. There was silence. 'It's been a while since I've seen you' she said. 'I know, I know' I said, 'You lied about your age. That's not cool' 'Sorry about that. I just didn't know if you'd like me if I was older than forty..' 'That's the entire point, no?' I interrupted. And I didn't notice she had bad posture until she started fidgeting with her hair; it was in a loose, unkempt bun. She tugged at the hair tie until it all fell down to her shoulders. I was finally relieved to see that I had a beautiful mother and soon suggested that we go to her place and talk about my childhood. She smiled, and made an attempt to grab the car keys she left on the table, but I was quicker. 'No,' I said laughing, 'I'm driving'. And that was the first time I ever took charge; and nothing has changed since.
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65
So pleasure twists to grief— Sweet Eve looks for just relief. We were looking only for release. Because Adam died. Adam died.
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Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
Green Tea Frappuccino
Silence and space. We have now mastered the trick. And we are living it. No cues. No dramatic transitions or face-slapping moment. Dead air is not even awkward. The parlor games are busted. It just happened one Tuesday morning inside Starbucks after you ordered your iced Americano and my vanilla frappuccino, no whipped cream, Maybe there's a sequel to this story, but for now, we should roll the credits.
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Jun 15, 2018
Jun 15, 2018 at 6:45 AM UTC
Closing Billboard
On this chilly café independently, I sat. To this Toffee Nut Frappuccino, I sipped. With my never ending reverie called “self-pity”, I am consumed. Paved way for this sudden urge to get my purple-inked pen, and my nasty leather brown notebook, from my old blue sling bag. What to write? Believe me, I have no idea. I just feel like to scribble this nonsense out from my littered thoughts, and disarrayed emotions of this solitary state called “singlehood”. For where are those shoulders to lean on? Where are those hands to hold? Where are those sparkling eyes that stares back? *Where are those? Where are those?* When can I ever have someone to share this table with? When can I ever hear another heartbeat next to mine? When can I ever read my poetry to this “special one”? *When can I? When can I?* So now, five minutes left is all I have. I’ll be packing my things now, stop this senseless scribbling, head to the office, with coffee on my hand. This reverie, I must halt. To rather remind myself: “Hey, today’s a brand new day. and who knows? Who Knows?”
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Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
Who Knows?
the monotony of frap after frappuccino after frap, sloshing flavored syrup up my arms and fingers sticky with caramel-- we run like hamsters round & round and don't stop 'til we're dead--
0
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 5:36 PM UTC
Untitled
Don't take me wrong But Starbucks Chile Mocca Frappuccino ***
0
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Truth enough
You're like a shot of espresso. energy jolting through my veins Or like a latte. Frothy and easy to drink in And occasionally you're like a strong Irish Coffee. Not everyone can handle At times you're like a frappuccino. Cold against my lips and chill me to the core If I'm lucky you're smooth and warm. Making you the perfect cup
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May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 9:26 PM UTC
The Perfect Cup