Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
victoria Jan 2018
Mocha skin man

Move over
come closer
my mocha skin man
Kiss my lips
Kiss them harder
My mocha skin man
Touch my face
Touch it sweeter
My mocha skin man
Stroke my thigh
Stroke it higher
My mocha skin man
Hold me close
Holder me dearer
My mocha skin man
Love me deeply
Love me stronger
My mocha skin man

I can’t wait any longer
My mocha skin man
But I will wait
forever
My mocha skin man
I’ve met someone, he’s beautiful he’s Indian and his skin melts my heart ***
Lola Aug 2017
I walk in
I hope to find you
I hope to see those pearly whites
That brought a big wide grin to my face

Dear white chocolate mocha
Where are you
I am looking for you
Are you looking for me..?

I listen to a man, that goes by the name sheeran
When he sings it echoes in my ear
It’s like an anthem,
So sweet that the goddess of love can surely drink to

Dear white mocha,
I want to know your secrets
I want to watch the stars glow at night

White mocha most of all
I want to know what it’s like to fall and have you catch me
I want you to be my friend

Mocha I want to be able to be in sync
Instead of two
Can our souls intertwined to be one?


Dear white chocolate mocha do you know how to fix a broken girl ?
Kewayne Wadley Jun 2018
I swirled in a ocean of brown.
Venting in steam.
My drown overlapped by current
On top of current.
I swirled around and around,
swimming in sugary spec.
I once dreamed of dry land.
Loosing my footing on the edge of a spoon.
The top of a pink packet torn off.
Sprinkled on my head.
There was no sense in fighting.
One single serving brewed.
It was exciting to feel myself swirl,
All I'd ever know.
around and around.
All I'd ever know.
The more I drunk the more evident it became.
The here after in addiction.
Sweet in taste.
My skin dipped in heart of something so delicious.
I swirled around in an ocean of brown.
Her eyes.
Never once did it occur that I couldn't gulp them.
I still tried.
Lost forever in Mocha flavored aroma
Olivia Kent Aug 2013
In a luscious crushed iced mocha,
Cream as it's wonderful peak,
Top of my mountain of mischief,
The wonderful delicious iced mocha,
Dwelling in my heaven filled mug,
All crushed up with love,
Negate the love,
It's from commercial enterprise,
My heartfelt want, my one desire.....
To have a mocha machine of my own, to sate my wild desire!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Coop Lee Jun 2014
to the young privateer.
the captain kidd & his bought n’ taut gang of holy bluffs.
they bribe and imbibe and swoon on the dock-way looking for a quest or two or three
to dream and bury their doubloons in island guts like little mysteries. little sundowns
over a rixdollar indian ocean.
let them take a turn.
destined to mutate from private to pirate, the kidd, like blackened rotten wood.
******* frigates.

the ship:
with her bob and sway. she is, the adventure.
& her song is calling out for a rapturous few,
for men ready to die on the highwater mark by glory or fire or dead glorious sun.
so they put her brass and bough to seafaring days,
the sweet galleon, barely wet, yet
completely riffed to voyage.
she is
from the shores of london. built. designed to kick 14 knots under a full sail blast.
& she will bite.

she’s in calm waters.
the kidd savvy toothed and butterscotched, he awaits the big show,
engorged to set forth the play like wily ocean dervish &
they do.
they do proceed with benefactors coined and crunched on postulations of pirate death &
pirate gold. reclaimed honor as they say. the hunt for pirate teeth.

& with official pass and parchment, high-throne approved,
king ***** III stamp & sealed,
this voyage is.
this voyage is and forever was, hereby charted, to recover said stolen goods.
to reclaim thy warrior vanity &/or vengeance.
to noble this **** with pinched loaf, like now.
set sail. now.
1696.

“**** them navy yachts at greenwich, the thames be ours, boys.”
slap *** and flick thumb toward those armada sons,
& as tribute
smoke balsam herbs on the starboard side for the mother she and the father be.
but for this slight,
this dishonorable silly ****,
one third of adventure’s men are pressed into service of the crown.

[continue.]

the adventuresome few, petty crew and crows.
steal the heart and mother-meat of a french ship. steal everything onboard.
steal the ship itself.
& on her way to new york, new boon, pure and entered into the new world.  
there are new men bought in the american port,
good men and odd men of long criminal legacy.
a small black vicious quartermaster. he’ll do.
a murderous preacher gripped by stars and celestial patterns. he speaks spanish. he’ll do.
another type of holy man and a wild drinker too, embattled by demons on the port side. sure.
plus the dock-boys destined to **** for fruits of exploration.
this is the way of the son of a gun.

the boatmen jockeyed. she is
the adventure
prancing the vertebrae of atlantic and beyond. cape of good hope, she
breathes easy out here on the wide tide and float.
out here on the vast blue this. she
evolves
out here. loves out here.

pirates.
the hunt for pirates or the lack thereof. she leaks.
she rasps into the years on. and on.
the kaleidoscope hallucinations of sun and moon, sun and moon, and moon and sun
forever.
the strait of bab-el-mandeb.
& there
she plunges into darkness, into the stars seen from and through a periscope formed
by ancient hominid lineage.
seen but untouched,
in dreams. the kidd, reluctantly lime, admits to his madness.
madagascar.

malaria and cholera and hell break the boat by the throat.
& thrash.
to be organic is to be ruled by a shadow, or entropy.
the mouth of a red sea.
one third of the men will die here.
simply as insects crushed and brushed off deck and into to her great spate of agua,
the mother gush.
her earth.
body.
father,
hear his whispers in the mirage.
the ancient mariner, the ancient holy ghost riming down there.

in destitution.
in a rough and soggy life squeezed and making men weird or violent or both be ******.
the kidd goes cold to hot sweating noxious.
turns pirate himself
out of sheer hunger.
out of sheer need to eat.
sets the boys like dogs upon a frigate of east india company men,
or french *****. either/or/or/either/or.
he & the boys are in a madness swirl of sun and heavy guts.
cuts to spill blood
or gold. this tender bit.
lip bit
& tested.

captain kidd fractures the skull of a deckhand named moore,
for bad attitude and giggles. moore gets death.
chisel on the deck.
& to think we are all troubled by some primal trauma.
some dumb thing called death, that is.
men starving, men dying, men falling in the vast black that is that eternal void.
dream of women and riches in the meantime.
fortunes.
1698.

savage kidd, cool kidd, cool spit
off the edge. to think of the once soulful idea of these paradise days
& trip.
savage to cool.
the two divine modes of a survived man.
a ghoul man, or aging man.
& to keep control of his crew kidd sets them upon the quedagh merchant;
a 400 ton armenian hulk chalk full of gold, silver, satins, and muslin. ‘tis *****.
renames her: the adventure prize.

madness quenched for now.
charmed for now
& on the horizon are fragrant times. blissful distance.
but robert culliford,
with his mocha frigate. this man, this suave pirate lord, his vengeance act.
he had stolen kidd’s ship years back, &
the captain opts to cut his throat.
take the mocha.
keep calm & carry on.
to paradise.
to dream of her cool warm beaches and fruit forever, peacefully thinking.
so that night they two drink together in good health, and in the morning
most of the men defect to this other man, this other ship, culliford.
other dream,
other captain of true buccaneer effect.
act 3:

13 remain in the galley firm.
this is the house adventure.
& she is burnt alive three days later for rot and ill repair.
but she was fun,
& a *****.
a stitch of old woodwork given-in
& crackling with the eyes of her crew seen in fire.

kidd steps the pond to caribbean times with the adventure prize, toad toxins
& high on the jungled shore.
he trades that colossus, flips her for a sloop and seven little chests of gold.
little bellies.
the island-gut doubloons to bury.
dream, remember?

but the men-of-war are after him now. the privateers & hunters & devil’s dogs.
the men he once was.
men of marked death.
& he is now some pirate, some forthright bandit
settled to **** or be killed.
some sad kid.

first: buries that treasure up the coast of america.
oak island rig.
cherry rocks of the maine bank and *****-trapped pit.
the hunted.
they catch him on an inlet ****, and sail back
to london to be tried for crimes against the crown.
the high court of admirality.
1701.

they hoist and gibbet his body with worn chains above the river.
not for piracy, but for ******.
the ****** of that strange deckhand moore and his giggle.
kidd’s bones
suspended there for three or more years at the mouth of the thames,
as warning
to the perverse travails of a criminal lifestyle on the highwater pond.
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
I almost forgot about you today. A sizable
spill of coffee shot me to my feet, holding
up my mocha-soaked notebook like an
unclaimed child. A dozen eyes found
me at once---a security measure meant
to bring shame to a klutz breaking his
social contract. Attention for **** living.
When the pain receded I stood in place
and imagined you brushing your teeth.
“CAAAAMON-CAAAMON-CAAMON-CAMON. *******. *******, YOU STUPID *******!!!!”  I slam on the brakes as the traffic light turns red, the front end of my car now parked in the middle of the intersection.  

A bunch of headlights begin to move towards me, and I rev the engine, slamming the car into reverse.   Now behind the white line, I lean back and take a few breaths.  I sound like my old man.  That nasty, fat ***** was always screaming at those useless racehorses as his soggy, limp cigar would bounce from his lips, spit landing all over the paid-in-full fakies of whatever blonde ***** was cuddled up next to him for the afternoon.  Having lost everything by the end of the day, he would always plod home and deposit his soiled, checkered pants on the laundry room floor and crawl into bed to make love to my mom.  

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.  I already wish I could be one of those old horses who gets shot in the head.  Today was my five-year work anniversary, and on behalf of the entire department, volcano-face Emily bestowed upon me a massive dog bone, which now sits tauntingly on my passenger seat.  As she suppressed that nasty giggle of hers and handed me the bone, the room erupted with laughter, someone shouting from the back corner, “Hey, Ed! Get it?!  You’re always like a dog with a bone!”  Maybe I should go back to work and make that ***** play fetch.

No. I’ll save that for later.  Right now I am going to go get that Philly Cheese Steak sandwich that’s been on my mind all afternoon.  That is if this light ever turns green again.  But ******* is my mouth salivating just thinking about that sandwich.  

What the hell is that?

A Ford Bronco is blazing towards the intersection, directly into oncoming traffic.  It swerves onto the shoulder, speeding past the rows of stopped cars and blasting through the red light.  The driver is leaning out the window, swinging around a sword.  He notices me staring and looks straight into my eyes, solidifying his unspoken threat by pointing his medieval weapon straight at my heart.  

Fine.  If that ******* wants a duel, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not oblige.  I reach behind the passenger seat and grab the antique cop light that’s been gathering dust on the floor ever since I purchased it at the neighborhood thrift store.  I slap the thing on the top of my car and punch through the red light, cranking the steering wheel to make a quick u-ey.  As I gain some distance, I can just barely make out the license plate.

DR PEPR

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Dr. Pepper ignores the fact that I am only 20 feet behind him and turns up his stereo, blasting a Renaissance dance tune from hell.

I’m going to end this, and I’m going to end it by sticking that sword up that Shakespeare *******’s ***.  

Dr. Pepper slams on his brakes, the sudden jolt causing him to drop his sword.  The passengers in the back of the cab burst into a slow-motion uproar, and I take the opportunity to cut off their escape route.  Now stopped, I pull out my mocha-flavored e-cig from my front pocket and look over at my dog bone as the vapor fills the car.  I snag the bone and step outside, feeling the weight of the rawhide in my hand as I approach the truck. Not stopping to bother with the driver, I head towards the back, kicking the forgotten sword into traffic.  My clothes are bathed in red from the brake lights, and the coked-out frenzy of the Renaissance men reaches a ****** as I stand before them, looking like the devil himself.

Adrenaline is surging through me.  As I take a drag of mocha, I scan the faces of the annoying pukes in the back of the truck and locate the nastiest in the bunch sitting in the middle of his troupe, completely stiff with fear.  I look deep into his eyes and slowly exhale.  I pull one more drag as I raise the massive bone and bring it crashing down, making full contact with the left brake light.  The red shards explode into the sky, and I do not hesitate to follow up with the other break light.  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can’t help but swing even harder.  

Wow - what a beautiful explosion.  

“Unsheathe thy sword!  UNSHEATHE THY SWORD!”

Dr. Pepper searches frantically for his sword as I casually approach his door. “Dr. Pepper,” I say calmly. He continues to desperately ***** around the truck, so I lean forward, “DR. PEPPER.” He turns begrudgingly to look at me.  Wanting to bid farewell to my defeated adversary, I raise my right hand into a 90 degree angle and wiggle my fingers “bye-bye” in his direction. His blood-shot, brown eyes widen, and it’s clear that he is terrified that his face will be the source of my next fireworks display.  Lucky for him my stomach growls, reminding me that my quest for a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich remains unfulfilled.

I walk away, the cherry light still flashing on top my car, so I take my bone and take a hard swing, unleashing the last set of fireworks in my perfectly-directed scene.  I get in the car, and as I start the engine, the oldies station is blaring Clarence the Frogman Henry’s song, “Ain’t Got No Home”.  It’s the best part of the song, and without hesitation I begin to tap out the rhythms on my steering wheel and sing along with Clarence in that high-pitched voice of his:

“I ain’t got no sister,
I ain’t got a brother,
I ain’t got a father,
not even a mother,
I’m a lonely boy,
I ain’t got a home.
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-­woo-woo!”
Mal Jun 2019
you're the caramel to my coffee
your sweetness, so soothing to taste
you're the sugar
the cream

your cup of coffee never fails to bring a smile onto my face
i don't care what time of the day it is, i will always want your cup

my coffee is black
soft and plain
bitter to taste
the mocha
i wasn't important

my cup of coffee wasn't good enough for you
you tasted me once, maybe a couple times

i used to drink you slowly
get every flavor in
enjoyed every sip
you brought warmth into my heart
and as soon as i could get my hands onto you, i would savor you everytime

you used to drink me fast
you swallowed me up like i was a good-for-nothing
you didn't savor me at all
i hope i at least burnt your tongue

i wanted you to be the caramel to my mocha coffee
and you knew that

but my tongue is swollen
i didn't blow before i took a sip
and you hurt me

now i'm an iced coffee
cold
distant
uncommunicative

i miss savoring you
i don't care if we're both iced coffee
but now
will you please
be the caramel to my mocha iced coffee
i got inspired by another poem i read

and i want some coffee
Brianna May 2017
It was always that Peppermint White Mocha.
It's so funny that a simple drink... one that I choose every single time.
A drink my friends and I have turned into a small inside joke.
A drink that tastes like Christmas ( which you know I hated) and Joy ( but i was always too pessimistic right?).

A drink that no matter the weather I still choose that one single drink.
Don't get me wrong, I've tested other flavors.
I've tried it iced.
I've tried it blended.
I've tried it at a local coffee shop in every city I go too.
But nothing compares to the original.

Funny how this started with you.
Are we even talking about the drink anymore?
frankie crognale Dec 2013
there’s a girl i know.  she sits at the end of the table in the coffee shop all by herself.  i’ve never spoken to her, but she’s the most interesting person i’ve ever encountered.  she sits there with her music blasting her ear drums, unable to hear the regular coffee shop madness happening around her.  she’ll glance up and notice it, but she chooses not to actually see it.  she’s in her own little world, and she liked it that way.  she’ll sit in her chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop for as long as you’ll let her, flipping the pages of her favorite book or creating sparks with weapon of choice, the pen.  she’s in her place where she feels secure in her chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop.  every season she’ll be there.  the dead of winter brings black rimmed glasses, flannel shirts, ripped jeans, and combat boots. rugged, yet suitable.  her sweater weather drink is a medium hot peppermint mocha with an extra shot of espresso, normally with a wedge of cheesecake or a cinnamon pastry.  as winter comes to an end and spring begins to bloom, she emerges out of the tiny cocoon she’s put herself in for the winter and flies into the world like a beautiful butterfly. when the sun is out, she’s shedding her own light on all the regulars in the coffee shop.  she might not be talking to them, but she’s enchanting them in her own special way in her chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop.  she has the most mesmerizing eyes, from what i’ve seen of her.  her eyes can pierce you right through your flesh, creep into your bones, and go straight through your heart like an arrow at it’s terminal velocity.  with those eyes, without fatality, she scans the room, her favorite book, her chipping nail polish, her clothing, which has now become high waisted shorts she made out of a pair of her dad’s old jeans, a black t-shirt, and a pair of black converse sneakers.  simple, yet lovely.  her drink has gone from a medium hot peppermint mocha with an extra shot of espresso to a medium iced green tea with a squeeze of lemon and a drop of organic honey, nothing extra to go along with it. her skin is sun kissed, and her lips are cherry red.  her eyebrows are arched just high enough above her black framed glasses, and freckles spotting her tiny nose.  her hair is bouncy black curls, sometimes ******* in a messy bun or left down naturally. her music varied with the seasons, as well.  the sweater weather brought muse and two door cinema club.  bikini season brought the wombats or the arctic monkeys.  i knew what music she listens to because she blares it so loudly against the brick walls of the coffee shop.  she probably thinks she’s doing us a favor.  all of these attributes go into making this girl the most intricate girl i’ve ever come across in this small town coffee shop.  i don’t know much about this girl.  i wish i knew a little bit more.  i wonder what her name is, who her friends are and why they’re never there with her, if she has any cats, what dressing she puts on her salad, how many times a day she brushes her teeth, if she prefers pen or pencil, what kind of sushi she likes, or what kind of shampoo she uses. i wish i knew every single detail of this girl, but i do know a few things for certain.  she’s the seasons.  she changes her appearance and her mysterious attitude towards everything outside her little world. her drink and her music change, too.  the only thing that still remains the same through all of the changes is her spot in the chair at the end of the table in the coffee shop.
until the day i said hello.
Ceryn Feb 2013
I tried so hard to wipe away
Those tears falling from my eyes,
I felt your hand hold mine
Then I finally saw paradise.

‘Twas the loveliest day of my life
When auburn leaves tend to fall,
And we were each other’s remedy
From the heartbreaks we had before.

Along the drive we used to tread
Despite our busy days ahead,
We’ve had enough of a sweet talk
A cup of mocha to keep us from cold.

I felt the warmth of your embrace
Beautiful times I’d forever treasure,
Those tender words your lips can’t miss
Not even the genius can measure.

It was not a piece from so-called forever
We never vowed of anything fake,
We’re just off to cherish moments together
Never thinking of such a blue fate.

We gathered each chronicle we get
From the perfect portrait we made,
As it showered upon us with gentle haste
We never thought it would fade.

The clock continued to take control
Of the love we both loved to have,
But the world seems to have taken its toll
We weren’t meant to last, no, I guess not.

Slowly, smiles were all for pretense
Distance were made between two hearts,
Conflicting thoughts then grew immense
Seems like it's all going to fall fast.

Million miles away from each other
Cried in vain, we’re drifted apart,
Just cannot think of any better
Watch the raindrops fail to stop.

Soon it was winter in the city I’m in
A snowflake formed a cut on my cheek,
But it was nothing compared to this pain
A delightful stuff that proved me I’m weak.

I tried to run away from the lame scene
Millions of footprints behind me were seen,
I don’t know where to go or where to hide
I just have to cry but no one’s by my side.

Tears rolled over my forever bleeding scar
I wiped it away and it hurt so much more,
I knew I will never find comfort again
Staying miserable for life, sure as said.

And then again, I felt that same old warmth
Only to realize that in your arms, I was wrapped,
You said you just can’t make another start
Without me, our days only seem lonely apart.

That was the day I realized once more
Just like the old memories of us before,
A sip of love will surely take it all
And in love, I know, we will forever fall.
Every time I walk into the line I can only hope to run into you like I've  done before.
Your smile brightens up my day and
In your conversation I could forever stay.
Will you be my Starbucks lover?
We could grab some coffee and lattes,
talk about our lives and mistakes.

Cause I want to be the peppermint to your mocha, the pumpkin spice to your latte, the caramel to your macchiato.
We could compliment each other.
I just want your sweet company and I'll wait in line patiently.
Written about a cutie I like to bump into at Starbucks.
Terrin Leigh May 2015
voices blend, a buzzing murmur
steam swirls, mocha wafts
caffeinated atmosphere
java fog looms above

steam swirls, mocha wafts
music caresses lightly the ambience
caffeinated atmosphere
lively line of addicts

music caresses lightly the ambience
softly, I fall into clouded thought
lively line of addicts
contrast my peaceful bliss

softly, I fall into clouded thought
pen the pensive rumination
contrast my peaceful bliss
busy baristas hollering orders

pen the pensive rumination
inspiration in café population
busy baristas hollering orders
while I ponder life's purpose

inspiration in café population
doodle, draw, and dream
while I ponder life's purpose
I sigh, my mind screams

doodle, draw, and dream
let it out, let me be
I sigh, my mind screams
voices blend, a buzzing murmur
Claire Walters Jun 2017
I walked into a 7-11 with you and  then all of the sudden I stopped and starred,
not because a loud and angry guy was screaming at his kids not to touch anything,
but because,
the coffee in the pots were cold and less than half full just sitting there on the counter
and no one was going to come in and drink it,
it would be left there to sit all night getting colder, until someone dumped them and cleaned them out, that's how I was before you came along,
I was a cold *** of coffee left over from that morning that no one wanted anymore,
you see, you seemed to drink the whole coffee *** before it even had a chance to get cold,
And if it did get cold,
You'd drink it anyway,

You got ecstatic over the thought of having caffeine in you to wake you up and make you lively again  
And I love that about you

You are different
You don't care about my non-coffee drinking past
You don't care about the dark rough grinds that took over me and made me undrinkable
You don't care if I was French pressed or keurig'd out
You still love me

You'd still love me if I was skim milk
If I was a skinny fat free latte
You love me now, even when I'm whole milk
If I became a double chocolaty chip
And I love that about you

You love my "I wanna white mocha latte",
and my "I need an iced French vanilla coffee from Dunkin' Donuts right now!",
And my "I am on a first date with this guy walking around with this amazing dude spilling a watered down small coffee all over my hands because I am so nervous, AND I DONT EVEN CARE BECAUSE I DONT KNOW IT YET BUT HE WILL BE MINE FOREVER!"

You're that kind of "I-don't-need- another-espresso-shot-but-I'll-take-an-extra-one-anyway-even-if-I­-do-have-to-pay-fifty-more-cents" type of guy,

Because in the end I realized paying that extra fifty cents was worth it and I'm glad I did
Because this is the best cup of coffee I've ever had and i don't want any other kind,

And I wish I would have tried this sooner and I want this feeling to last forever, because this feeling is nothing like I have ever felt before, it's like the first time sipping a different kind of coffee and not sure how it's going to taste and then all of a sudden your taste buds start going crazy and you lose your **** mind because it is so good,
And you want the cup of coffee to last forever, and it will,
Because you will keep going back to your most favorite and amazing cup of coffee for every day that you live

We went to Dunkin' Donuts again the other day,
We're known as the 7pm coffee drinkers,
One of the workers that's always there gave you two free to go cups,
We're there a lot....

The first thing I gave you was a small coffee with cream and sugar filled kiss,
the second thing was a gift card to a coffee shop,

I love you a latte
And you know i espresso a lot of feelings towards you
You're my 4 packs of sugar
My hazelnut and French vanilla creamer
You're the first thing I think of when I wake up and what keeps me up at night,
You and my coffee
Us and our coffee,
Surprising each other at work with a 16 oz coffee in our hands with a dumb smile on our faces

You are the reason I am happy
You are the reason I love coffee so much
You are the reason I wake up
You're the reason I ask if you want coffee
And the baristas at our school have an odd look on there face when I order not one but two cups of coffee and they can't help but wonder if there's someone they don't know about
And there is
It's you
And you are mine
g clair Oct 2013
Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

She's your favorite pillow on a double wide recliner
or your front porch Adirondack with your early evening stogie
peace and quiet is the theme of your real life day-dream
the only noise you want to hear is from your 60 inch flat screen
with surround sound and remote, watching oldies you old goat,
Twilight Zone and Walking Dead, you've got Stooges in your head, and all the talkshows and the news  is in between

you're not hangry, you're not mean, Freedom understands your bean
with your crockpot full of chili you've been full since you've left Philly
and don't really need a maid around in fact the thought seems silly
you can cook and you can clean, you can work from home and preen
occupied  with daily orders and you like to clean your quarters
you've got all the latest gadgets you're not wanting for a house guest
since deliveries come daily  thank the UPS guy, Bailey
and by now you're feeling quite blessed
'cause the shipping on your stuff is mostly free.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

On those days you're feeling needy, there's that lady at the counter
who knows you by your first name and the waitress with her smile
and the few words back and forth let's you know she recognizes you
remembers how you like your coffee since you come for breakfast weekly
and it's so nice to chat with Kathy for a while.

Who could blame you, loving freedom since she doesn't seem to take
but will fill your heart with pleasure never make your head to ache
never needing any comfort, never waiting at the table
after cookingup your favorite, never asking you to come home
from wherever else you're hanging never asking any questions
always free from expectations who could measure up to Freedom's wit and charm?

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

So called friends there on your Facebook clinging to your every word
as if coming from a guru when you're feeling like a nerd.
they applaud your sense of humor, all the items you are SHARING
and they LIKE the way you're looking and the way you that you respond
for your intellect is hooking and you're forming a close bond
over politics and reason, like your thoughts on this election
and the president and treason or the stuff that you've been cookin'
yeah, you've got a wife named freedom and I know, if you can't beat 'em
I'd be wise to choose my freedom over you.

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

Now you've filled up all your neediness without a real lover
hey there now but that's your business between you and Freedom's cover
as for women, you don't need 'em cause you've sworn off love for living
and for sure you love your Freedom and to these ends you watch your giving.
Now you're turning up the music and then you're surfing through your favorites
and flipping through the channels and those periodic moments
gotta catch up on your reading,organize your book collection
get your Ebay up and running you can do without direction
or distraction or attention

do the laundry
mow the lawn
fix what's broken
nothings wrong

Come closer won't you, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hanging on the
fringe of my heart
it's that white knuckled fear
surely Freedom stands near
and you dare not even tell her you're afraid.

maybe you go and take a shower and then shave for like an hour
don't forget to flush the toilet, boil an egg and eat some yogurt
top if off with some granola plan your week out, date with Lola
watch the leaves fall and then scatter,
rake 'em up
'cause these things matter,
crack a beer and catch a rerun
never mind the stuff that's undone...

Somewhere deep inside you, you are still the same old lonely
as you were the other year, never mind that second beer
think you realize you miss me, bet sometimes you'd like to kiss me
holding hands while watching TV, maybe someone just to talk to
and to laugh at all your old jokes and to share a little something
that you whipped up in your crockpot, glass of wine, latte or mocha
never mind, let's dance the polka, right that tightness in your shoulder
like John Lennon and his Yoko...

You decide to dial my number  
I usually don't usually like to answer 
 on the first ring  but by chance, you're
  saying something, wait a second
'cause I gotta turn my sound down
oh you're singing something funny,
and I like your phone voice honey
it's this old familiar tune I wrote for you

"Come closer to me, Dear
my loving friend
you're always out there hangin'
on the fringe of my heart
with your white knuckled fear
for our freedom stands near
and we dare not even tell her we're afraid"
For my dear old friend, a confirmed bachelor, who goes by Poppy, or Bubba.
LightToBurn Jul 2020
The earth in which tired
city feet desire to rest on.
Plushly thick forests,
be lost and never found,
coating yourself in saturated
autumn leaves that
reflect the pulsing warmth
in the golden sun.

Your sticky honey,
rich and sweet pools in mason jars,
tempting to silver spoon scoop and
spur morning teas.
Or the mocha
in newly brewed coffee,
the bold and the cream
swirling inside your crystal *****.
Hewasminemoon Jul 2014
It was almost February and winter still hadn’t hit. I was beginning to
think that it wouldn’t arrive, and that spring was here. One evening as I was walking down the streets of the city I looked up to see a single snowflake falling down to meet my face. It was tiny and looked lonely, but a few moments later, it was followed by several more snowflakes. Sooner than later, the ground was covered in a white sheet of snow. and I was stuffing my hands in my coat pockets and pulling my hood on to brace myself against the bone-chilling wind. I made my way into a small coffee shop that was still open and was greeted by a short stocky man in his mid thirties with a dark, curly mustache and sleeves of faded tattoos.
“Hello” he said, his voice sounding deep and smooth. I pulled out my headphones that were burning in my ears, pressed pause on my phone and shoved them carelessly in my messenger bag.
“Hello”, I replied back with a slight smile, pulling my hands out of my
pockets and making my way to the counter.
The shop was small, but it had a staircase leading upstairs with more room for seating. The man who stood behind the counter continued to unpack small plastic covered packages, putting them away in cupboards and freezers. I pulled out my wallet from my bag and plopped it on the counter, feebly attempting to pull out my card with my hands shaking violently from the cold.
“What a night”, the man said, his eyes still focused on his duties.
“Hmm.” I said, nodding. “Can I get a 12oz mocha, please?” The man looked up from his package, and giggled coyly.
“Sure you can, sweetheart." He put the package that he was holding down below him, and began making the drink I had just ordered. My credit card held tightly in my hand, still shaking. There was awkward silence between us and I got the feeling the man understood I didn’t feel like talking. He finished my order, filling a small, white ceramic mug, and pushed it across the counter towards me.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head, implying no and handed him the cold card. He swiped it and handed it back to me, along with a receipt and a pen to sign. I signed the receipt, grabbed my coffee and headed up the stairs to my right. Upstairs, there was a large room with a dining room looking table and several chairs, and to the left, and a small hole in the wall with several cushions. I smiled at the welcoming spot, and took a seat. Pulling a small table up next to me, I set my coffee down, and rested my bag on the floor below me. The upstairs was completely empty. In fact; the entire shop was empty besides the man working downstairs. I took a deep breath in and let my head rest on some of the cushions behind me. Closing my eyes, I let out my breath and felt the warmth and the vast history of the shop run envelop me. I grabbed at the cup beside me and sipped at my coffee. It was still too hot to drink comfortably, so I set it down. Out of my bag, I pulled out my phone with the headphones still attached and scrunched into a tight tangled ball.
Untangling them, I placed each bud in my ear, and pressed play, continuing the song I had stopped when I had entered the coffee shop. I felt my eyelids grow heavy and I sunk deeper and deeper into the pillows around me, the smell of old books seeping into my skin. Finally, I closed my eyes, and after a few moments, was sound asleep.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a man’s face, unfamiliar but comforting.
“Excuse me…” he said, with a wide grin.
I jumped with embarrassment; ripping my headphones out of my ears, although they were no longer playing anything. How long had I been asleep? And who was this young man? An employee of the shop? A customer?
“Sorry!” I yelped.
The man chuckled as I swung my feet around to the floor and pulled out my phone to check the time. Realizing it was dead, I scanned the room for a clock and with no success I asked the stranger “What time is it?”
He rolled up his sleep, and checked what to be a rather expensive watch. The man was dressed nicely, but nothing too formal. A clean pair of black jeans, a plaid shirt and a sweater over it. His hair, a dark brown looked thick and slightly curled. He ran his fingers through it as he responded. “It’s quarter past.”
“Past what?”
He blinked at me. “Eight…” he paused at my confused look. “A.M”
I gasped at the time. It was just past nine at night when I had dozed off.
Why did the short stalky man not wake me? Did he forget I was upstairs?
Maybe he assumed I had left, and just missed me doing so.
“I…I…” I stumbled upon my words. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, still
unsure who this man was.
“My boss told me you’d be up here.” He lifted my cup of cold coffee and
handed it to me. “I can get you a warm cup if you’d like. We don’t open for another half hour.”
I nodded, and with the cup in hand, the man turned and headed down the stairs. I gathered my things, smoothed out my shirt, tossed my hair to one side and followed the man down the stairs.
“My names Elliot” he shouted from behind the counter and the noises of the coffee machine.
“Ellie.” I shouted back.
A door swung open and in Elliot’s hand was a new cup of coffee.
“That’s a coincidence.”
I smiled nervously and took the cup from the man.
“Sit.” he said, nodded to a table.
I followed his instructions and set my cup down and pulled out a chair.
He stared at me for a moment as I stared at my coffee. After a long moment of silence, I started.
“I am so sorr-”
He stopped me and reached out, resting his hand on top of mine.
“It’s alright Ellie…really.”
I had a few questions but didn’t know where to start. So I let the silence
continue.
“My boss figured you needed a place to stay.”
I wasn’t homeless. Did I look homeless?
“Do you...have somewhere to go…?”
I nodded. “I’m not homeless…” I proclaimed. I couldn’t help but stare at
his hands. There was something different about them from the rest of the
man.
“I figured. You’re too well dressed to be homeless.” He smiled, and his
hands moved up and through his hair again.
“So, if you’re not homeless then what’s your story?”
My story? I didn’t have a story. I was a young single girl. Lonely. Living
on her own in the city. On her way home when a snow storm hit. I just stopped into the coffee shop to get warm, not to spend the night like some refugee.
“My story?”
“Yeah, your story.” he continued to grin at me.
I paused to think of an answer.
“I was just on my way home. Stopped in for a cup of coffee. Guess I didn’t
drink enough of it.”
He laughed at the comment, showing a set of pearly white teeth.
“Maybe it wasn’t a very good cup of coffee.” He glanced at the cup in front of me. I lifted it and took a sip.
“This cup’s better.” We both laughed softly, then found each other staring
for long while at one another.
“I’ll make sure not to tell my boss you said that.”
I took another sip. “I should probably go…” I said, standing up.
“Go where?”
“Home.”
He shook his head chuckling slightly. “Hang out. I’ll open late.”
“I don’t want to be more of an inconvenience than I already have been.”
Elliot reached out and took my hand in his, squeezing it softly.
“Ellie.”
My eyes grew wide, and I felt my heart beat quickly within my chest.
“Let’s not play games with one another. Stay.”
I pulled my hand away, and bit my lip.
“I can’t. I’m sorry Elliot.” I grabbed my bag from under the table, and thew
it across my shoulder. “Thank you…” I said, thinking of his hands but
staring at the blue in his eyes. I turned around, and pushed the door open.


---------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------

It was Valentine’s Day (or as I like to call it “Singles Awareness Day” ) and my friend had dragged me out to this terrible bar in the suburbs  titled “Distraction” My friend, who was newly single and “ready to mingle” laughed when she saw the big blue sign with the name.
“That’s an ironic name” she said, snickering.
I nodded my head and groaned as we headed inside. She was right. What was this bar distracting me from? If anything, it was drawing more attention to the things I was supposed to be distracted from by just existing with such a name. My friend walked up to the bar, leaned against a stool and ordered something sweet. She asked me if I wanted anything, but I shook my head no. After a few minutes of small talking with her, and watching her sip at her watered down drink, I noticed a young man walking towards us. The bar was dimly lit, and I couldn’t quite make him out but I sighed and turned towards the bartender.
“*** and coke” I hollered out to the man. “Pour heavy!”
I stayed facing the shelves of drinks, the different bottles organized by color and type. Whiskey, Tequila, *****. Suddenly, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and with a deep inhale, I turned; expecting some man with sleeked back hair and a bad tan to be facing me.
Instead, it was Elliot. Staring at me, standing inches from my face. I took a step back into a bar stool, and fell into a seat.
“Ellie” he said, smiling.
I couldn’t help but smile for a moment too, but then I quickly wiped it away as the bartender slid my drink to the right of me. Before I could do anything, Elliot placed a few dollars on the counter.
“You don’t have to -“
“It’s fine”  He continued to smile widely.
I looked around the room for my friend, she was across the room playing darts with some broad shouldered man. I took my glass, placed the straw on the counter and gulped down about half of it in one drink.  
“Happy Valentines Day” he said, almost sarcastically following the statement with a slight laugh.
I felt myself smiling again and took another gulp. The bartender definitely poured heavy. The liquid burned as it slid down my throat, and I clenched my teeth. I could tell Elliot was trying hard not to laugh.
“Would you like to dan-“
I bursted out laughing.
“Dance? Oh god, please. Don’t do this Elliot.”
He stared at me widely for a moment. “What are you so afraid of Ellie?”
I scoffed, and shook my head, taking another drink I responded
“I’m not afraid of anything”
He blinked at me, then ran through his fingers through his hair and breathed out loudly.
“Is it me?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer this, or what he was really even asking. I stumbled on my words, stuttering. I finished my drink, and set the glass down on the counter.
“Another?” he asked.
“No...” I paused. “Thank you”
He stared at me for a moment, his brows furrowed. He reached out to touch me, and I pulled away.
“Ellie...Let me-“
I interrupted him and shouted out “space!”
He looked puzzled, then chuckled.
“What?”
“I’m afraid of space”
“Space....? Please elaborate.”
“Like the sky, and the planets and the stars and ****”
He laughed softly. “And ****...”
“Think about it. We have no idea what’s out there. We have no idea what’s coming for us. We are so small, comparatively.”
“So you believe in aliens?”
“I believe in possibility”
“Anything could happen.”
“Exactly! Right now, as we speak, the sun could explode.”
“Or, aliens could invade!”
“You’re really stuck on the alien thing.”
“It’s a possibility”
We both sat in silence for a moment, his eyes felt heavy on me. I stood up from my stool, our bodies were almost touching.
“I’ve got to go see if my friends OK.” I said, glancing over at her. She was still playing darts with the broad shoulder man. He had his arms wrapped around her, ‘showing’ her how to hold the dart now.
“She looks like she’s doing ok to me” Elliot said with a snicker.
I didn’t argue.
“What’s your last name?” he asked.
I shook my head violently. “Look, Elliot. You seem-“ I stopped and thought of how I wanted to finish my sentence, but before I could, Elliot grabbed my hand and held it tightly.
“Ellie. I’m just a man. I’m not some comet coming down or some alien race a million light years away. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”
I took a few shallow breaths, my heart was pounding. I tried pulling away, but Elliot just pulled himself closer to me.
“You said you believe in possibility. You can’t deny the possibility of you and me.”
“I...”
He reached up, and tucked a hair that was falling down my face behind my ear then stepped back, letting go of my hand.
“I have an idea.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to help you conquer your fear”
“Oh?”
He grabbed my hand again and pulled me towards the door, I looked over to my friend, but didn’t fight him.
“She’ll be okay.” he said, still tugging me.
I followed him out the door and down the street. We stopped and hailed a cab, as one pulled up, he opened the door for me.
“Get in.”
“I don’t even know you. You could be taking me to some wear house to **** and ****** me!”
“Ellie. Don’t be so dramatic. Get in”
“Where are we going?”
“To the moon.”
“And back again?”
“We’ll see. Maybe once you get there, you’ll never want to leave.”
“It’s a possibility”
I stepped inside the cab, and so did he.

------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------


Once we were in the cab, the rush of excitement I was feeling in the bar and in the street had faded. Elliot handed the man his phone, which had an address written on it. The cabbie put the address into his GPS and started the meter as he drove on.
“So are we taking the cab to the moon? Or are we just taking the cab to NASA and then a spaceship to the moon?” I said sarcastically, my voice breaking from nervousness. Elliot put his hand on my leg, and sat back into his seat without saying anything.
“Who’s paying for the cab Elliot?”
He continued to be silent. I turned at stared out the window, I noticed the cab was taking us out of the city and I began to get a little worried.
“Can you please tell me where we’re going?” I asked quickly. I looked back at Elliot, he was sweating.
“Elliot? Is everything OK?” His eyes were shut and his breathing was heavy.
“I’m afraid of things in motion.” he muttered softly.
“Isn’t everything in motion?” he opened his eyes, raised his brows and then smiled at me.
“I mean, the world is always turning and we’re walking, or breathing. So we’re moving, no matter what-“
“Can you be quiet please?”
I looked back out the window again for what felt like a long while. Finally, the cab stopped in front a large abandoned dome like building in a town I had never been in. Elliot was quick to exit the cab, and circle the car to open my door. I stepped out, Elliot paid the driver and the cab drove away.
“So you ARE going to **** and ****** me?”
Elliot looked at me, and took my hand.
“I’m sorry about in the car. What mean by things in motion is like, cars and trains and planes and...” he paused, “and ****...”
We both laughed.
“I knew what you meant. I’m sorry if I was being difficult.”
He gave me a look and I nodded at him. He took me by the hand and led me closer to the building. We reached a door that had been boarded up.
“This doesn’t look like the moon...Or NASA...”
“Ellie. Do you trust me?”
“I...I don’t really even know you so-“
Elliot pried back at the board, slipping into the building through a small space and pulled me inside with him. The room we stepped into was a circle, and in the center; a large telescope.
“Does that even work?”
He squeezed my hand, then let go. Approaching the telescope, he stepped up a small set of stairs to a control panel. He pushed a few buttons and a few moments later, I heard a whirring and a low rattle followed by a deep sound. I felt a slight vibration and suddenly the roof was opening above me, exposing the night sky. On this night, the stars were bright, and the moon was full.
“Come here” Elliot called out from near the telescope.
I started to shake only slightly at the sight of the sky above me, I felt frozen and tense, as if I couldn’t move. Elliot made his way down the stairs and towards me.
“It’s okay Ellie.” he said, reaching for my hand and guiding me towards the telescope. We stepped up the stairs, and he stood next to me, still holding my hand as he adjusted a few things, looking in the telescope, then at me, then back through the telescope. He turned towards me, nudging me.
“Go ahead.”
I looked at the giant metal telescope, and shook my head.
“I really appreciate what you’re trying to do here but-“
He put his hand on my lower back, and pushed me towards the telescope.
“Just look.”
I put my face close to the telescope, an
Slumming.
Slumming around downtown.
Slumming around downtown St. Paul.

A broke high school student.
A broke student with perpetual down time.
A broken down senior student letting go of time.

Slumming.
Slumming down to Raspberry.
Slumming down to Raspberry Island.

Walking across the Mississippi River.
The bridge had been raided.

Marching.
Marching down teal and raspberry stairs.
Icycle nose hairs.
Seeing my breath as my chest shivers.
I found my heart trapped under the solid river.

Teenagers ******* about freshmen that got the bridge raided,
Teenagers ******* about artists they've always hated
and artists ******* about things they've created.

Underagers slowly letting out smoke.
Underagers letting out what keeps their lungs beating.
Underagers slowly letting out steam, cheating.
Me.
letting out smoke that came from the ice.
Smoke of below zero temperature, freezing my insides.

Mindless.
Mindlessly walking.
Mindlessly walking through endless skyways.

Mindless.
Mindlessly talking.
Mindlessly talking about things I don't remember.
Until we've arrived at We-Be-Smokin'.

Huddling.
Huddling in a group.
Admiring the art that claimed the spot before we did.

Scuttling.
Feet scuttling.
Feet scuttling in place to outrun the cold.

Reminiscing of months before when I was sitting alone in Starbucks with my
venti white chocolate mocha listening to crazy George yell at his imaginary
wife. Not being bothered. Not being cold.
Nikh Aug 2020
I got mocha boba for once

I’ve taken the first step

Thank you for that

Goodbye green apple.
E over c2 Aug 2018
I had a mocha today.
My lips devoid of yours needed comfort from what is to be our taste without you.
I need those monday mocha kisses
So i improvised
It wasnt enough.
Colm Nov 2019
Like a purple gem
Found deep within the Earths dark layers
Smooth as sandstone beneath rivers running
Warm as blackened pavement beneath summers sun

So this drink is to me
Most teasing of every sense and self
Which is why this cup cannot be
Most tasteful or worth

She made for me
The Best Raspberry Mocha On Earth
Hers Was The Best Raspberry Mocha On Earth
Dustin Wills Sep 2012
Let me tell you about highschool
Let me tell you about the girls with hair higher then they can reach
The boys with the careless hair
The love intre-

No

Let me tell you about MY highschool
With the nerd shirts and phrases that most don’t understand
With the football games and the blue and white face paint
The girls talking to me with another pair of lips rather than the ones plastered on their face

No

Let me tell you about life
About the dew drops in the morning
The smile hidden in a stranger as he orders his double mocha triple shot dosage of love
Injected

No

Let me tell you about me
Let me tell you about my mom and her thin lips that orchestrate fat lies
Let me tell you about my dad who treats the bottle like the daughter he never wanted
Let me tell you about my school life and the way I get treated

No

Let me tell you a story
A story about ups and downs
Pills and coke and *****
With books and love interests
I cant fit my life into a poem

I can tell you my love life in a poem
My scars in a poem
My hate in a poem
My fears in a poem
I can’t tell you my life

I can tell you about my surroundings
How I always try to be strong
But you can only stick your head near ***** for so long
Before you start smelling what they're saying.

I can tell you about homophobia
About the men who flinch at the very word ******
Or the girls who are so uncomfortable with themselves they starve
I can tell you about the parents childless because of bullying

So tell me
What do you want to hear today?
Darby Rose Feb 2015
You were my very first memory, as far back as it goes.
Playing in the grass of the backyard, the day we brought you home.
Through the years, you became such a constant source of love.
Our long walks kept me sane, helped me find much needed clarity, for years, and years.
16 years, you were on this earth, a long, loving life.
When I met you in the vet's office for one final goodbye,
You looked up at me through foggy cataract eyes and strained to wag  your tail.
I'll never forget that last look you gave me,
so loving,
so peaceful.
You were ready.

"Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends."

Rest in peace Mocha dog.
I will always love you.
Olivia Robinson Dec 2013
bindi's grace the top of her mocha forehead.
wrist draped with bangles.      African soul.
style so Afrocentric
             afro so black panther
fist high in the air she is black pride. she embraces the motherland with open arms and is proud of her heritage. music notes hidden in the blacks of her eye. she is music. hiphop and r&b.;
tupac's  lyrics ingraved on her tongue. words of left eye instilled in her brain.
              music gives her life.
voice of an angel yet  she stays mute. black ink at her fingertips and a notebook always at her side. she is a lyrisit. she is sassy. press the wrong button and she's gone for a moment but will soon comeback to earth. a beautiful quiet vibrant soul she is indeed.  stubborn and mean at times but still as sweet as the refreshing taste of lemonade on a hot summers day.
she is Africa. she is India. she is Haiti. she is black pride. she is music. she is poetry. she is wonderful. she is comical. she is lovely. she is classy.
she is my big sister.                                     O.Rob.
my sisters been asking me to write her poem FOREVER! with her being a poet, I'd think she'd understand that i can't just sit and write a poem, the words must come to me. finally they did and today's her birthday so I thought I'd give it to her as a gift.
Rhea Nadia Feb 2014
This cafe is no Starbucks.
No tea leaf&coffee; bean here.
They don't even play music.
Instead of tables and stools,
I've found myself lounged on top
of a quaint, bohemian styled sofa.
I'm figuring the target atmosphere is comfort.
Its fitting, but not for me.

Old memories are sitting on the sofa across, staring right at me.
I have to remind myself not to wave.
"Don't give in to nostalgia.
Forget us all. If you do and you come back, don't come see me."

Be that the representation of everything I have to let go.

*© 2014 Rhea Nadia
"Don't give in to nostalgia. Forget us all. If you do and you come back, don't come see me."

(Excerpt from "Cinema Paradiso" 1988 film)
Damian Murphy Jun 2015
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!
Sadly Kida Sep 2018
Theres just some
who know you're in pain
and will spend
forever
waiting for you

And I'd invite him in
no matter how long we've gone
apart
His warmth spreads over me
smoother than any
sweet bubbly poison
And when he kisses me
its slow
taking time to trace me
inch by inch

And as much as i hurt
as much as it kills me
to remember
those who have hurt me
I cant help
but want him to take more
of me
To kiss every piece of me
hold me
and look at me lovingly
with his mocha eyes
You ******, exotic,
Beautiful creature.

I could not be more intrigued by you.

I drove,
46 miles,
just to meet you,
you screamed at me for being late.
I wasn't.
I just live farther from your perspective than you can imagine.

I saw your face,
then I saw your eagerness,
Then I played this game,
Where I googled every word you said,
became an expert on it.
Throwing back refferences to things
i've never seen.

When I rolled in with my cigarette lit,
Sporting my badboy leather jacket,
you asumed I was this rebel.
This dangerous,
adventurous,
amazing creature.
Dropped onto this earth to entertain you.

Today.
That's exactlly what I am.

I'm 46 miles away from my home town.

My foam swords,
magic the gathering cards,
Dungeon and dragons playing self
Packaged tightly in the lockbox at my bedroom door.

The daddy, I became years ago
because I wanted too.

The lover I was raised to be,
watching nothing but romantic comedies my entire childhood
like some sort of propaganda to be the perfect boyfriend.
Tucked crisply into my bed.

My smolder is a gas mask.
you are the poison gas.
It was invented specifically for me to survive when I'm in the trenches with you.
My attitude is an army.
I hold myself like a commander shouting orders at my mind like it needs a leader.

“Stop calling her beautiful, maggot! She wants you to take charge.”

“Sir, yes sir!”

...So uh...
What do you wanna do today?

“What do you think you're doing?
Don't give her options!
Tell her where you're going!”


“Sir, yes, sir”

We're getting coffee.

We go to her favorite coffee house, I guessed.

She gets a nutella mocha.

I get a 16oz almond milk maple syrup latte

She calls me a hipster,
I laugh, I don't disagree.

I give her the radio,
“You pick the music”

“What do you think you're doing maggot!?”

“trust me,
we need to find out what music she likes before I play my music.
It's very important.”


I can pull brilliance out of any genre,
bands she's never heard of, but she'll fall in love with.
She plays show tunes.

Oh...

... Jackpot!

I start the conversation, you ever heard of Rocky Horror?

You ever hear of
Doctor Horribles Sing Along Blog?

You ever hear of
Little Shop of Horrors?

You ever hear of
Repo, The Genetic Opera?

You ever hear of
Hedwig and The Angry Inch?

She has.
All of it.
Every last word.
And she knows all of the words.
In fact,
every song I sing,
she sings along.
Word for word.

I  crack the whip,

you ever heard of Bo Burnham?

She has.

This girl might be the one.

“What do you think you're doing maggot?
Don't fall in love with this girl already,
Don't fall in love with this girl at all.”


“Sir, yes, sir”

We walk the beach,
Singing,
Dancing.
Every word of every song either of us start the other knows all the words.
She's breathtaking.
I can't believe it happened myself.
We chase each other in the sand.

I confess.

“You're actually the first person i've seen in real life from tinder...
I hear all these stories of couples meeting people for threesomes online and then murdering them.
I was half expecting you to **** me.”

She says:

“Well we didn't get to the end of the beach yet.”

I laugh.... wait... is she serious?

She laughs. “No really, i'm a sociopath.
My boyfriends waiting at the rocks down there and when we
Start to **** he's gonna jump out and slit your throat.
The redness of your blood spilling on the rocks is going to make me so,
*******,
Wet.”

This sounds like a great Idea.

She texts her boyfriend and asks if it's okay to kiss me.
When he doesn't reply she spams him.

Babe.

Babe.

C'mon Babe.

Really, Babe.

Babe.

Babe.

Babe.

It starts to rain,
We stay and get soaked together,
We don't care that we're wet, we keep singing.
The rain stops.
We get in my car.
I drive her to portland,
We park in the parking garage,
because i don't understand...
Signs...

I buy her dinner,

Not because it's the polite, gentlemanly thing to do,
I'd do that without the leather jacket, no.
because her sugar was low
she was having a panic attack
her boyfriend and her were probably breaking up and I felt bad.
Her boyfriend finally texts her back.

“Yeah, do what you want.”

I kiss her.

She asked me too before he gave permission, and my colonel said to do it

But I've been on the otherside of that text messege.

And even knowing what she wanted, I was waiting for that reply.
I don't know that boy.

But he deserved that

We go back to the parking garage, and she does not waste time,
My belt undone,
Her mouth eager,
Did I mention that this was the mission?
After awhile She asks to go to the back.
We do.
She removes the leather jacket.
this is her chance to wear
The leather jacket.
I make her ***,
I have this brief thought that maybe she faked it for me, but then
I can taste the truth,
I'm proud.


“Good job, maggot.”

“Sir, thank you, sir”


I drive the 46 miles back to kennebunk to drop her off.
She keeps my shirt.
I get home and find her phone charger in my backseat.
“Looks like we have a second date,"

I text her. “you forgot something, beautiful.
And I think you might want it.”
A true Story.
JR Falk Oct 2018
i long for the mornings i stir and hear those even breaths rolling over soft lips,
when we are lazily tangled up in one another
where i brush the hairs away from your eyes, though closed,
and count the faint freckles dotting your nose
for the moments of intimacy,
like the first few mornings that i whispered i love you,
countless times before i ever really told you i loved you
where i stare at those mocha eyes opening when you wake,
only for you to smile warmly and pull me closer
the intimacy of the sun peeking through the window,
and the security of your arms holding me tightly
you are my morning cup of coffee
you are just what i need to make it through the day
a week from now i’ll be by your side once more
i will trace your jawline as though i am preparing my mug,
wrap you in sheets of memory
drink in the sight of you in morning light
and take you for all that you offer
5:54am
10.22.2018
im so impatient
you bring me so much comfort and i can live without you, i just get a little on edge
im hooked

njk
Gabby Paige Mar 2014
Your warmth slid through my body,
energizing every cell,
a tingling sensation.

You started at my lips and worked your way
down
through my throat
down my spine
past my stomach
around my legs
to my toes.

Part of me wanted to pull away
but I couldn't leave from your
mocha taste and firm grip-
my addiction.

I've never loved a sensation like this,
but I can't bring myself to tear away
from the caffiene that is your touch.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
lessons in graffiti, or the Pinocchio giraffe;
and was the H absolutely necessary
when otherwise asking of a cappuccino
or at your local caf? evidently there was distinction
with the mocha too, but that won't matter,
otherwise the language isn't used... but abused.

lessons in graffiti, or other confectionary products,
while you ooze the shopping experience
on your daily commute,
       *skittels
on brickwork with the origins
of the #, cut short by simply the graffiti tag,
      you wrote tag, without the collective hash,
  not so much noughts and crosses gaming,
or remembering your phone number,
                  here graffiti: or the rekindling of
trademarks in the urban scenic bypass,
or: truly under the bridge.
             writing on money does very little:
but writing on newspapers? that say a lot,
the odd day i write something on a newspaper
review section and feel almighty -
        which is much more than the rage against
the machine instructions are about:
   write a message on a penny, it's still a penny,
write a message on a dollar, it's still a dollar,
but write a message on a newspaper:
you's basically encapsulating shouting at a protest!
() hence the picture.
             r.s. (receptui scriptum):
         i never knew whether the dot belonged in
the ). or the .) part of encapsulation, if that's to be
worded or acutely pill-sized embryo,
that bypasses the oesophagus workout before
the hydrochloric gym acidity.
   how is one to make science human again?
how is one to make science lessened in the Frankenstein
myth and the ostracized ostrich citizens
that scientists very much so, actually are?
       my notes on the matter?
non-existent: i see the feminist movement
i.e. there are more women than men as such
as not a case of **** culture, but as a case of "i'm not
getting any!" call in the Vikings,
mind you, even the supermarket cashier looked
astounded in between Friday and Saturday,
  on Friday a litre of whiskey
    on Saturday a litre of whiskey...
and some men climb the Everest or walk the moon...
while some envision their liver
as a Klitschko - the tetragrammaton exists only
because people made aesthetic suggestions / blunders,
it's a suggestion in the sur- or what's otherwise a surd /
a silent nonetheless inserted atom of sprechen:
like Nietzsche and Klitschko: you say less than you
write... out pops the tetragrammaton -
        if ever Caesar Octavian needed a teacher
my vanity suggests i'd done better teaching him
than Aristotle teaching Alexander, or Seneca teaching
Nero...
                  it's all down to excessive spelling, or
the keeping up of appearances, or simply looking
bizarre, and like in mathematics, there's a remainder,
what yhwh represents is in linguistic terms
as in mathematical terms: what's left over, scraps...
see it differently and it becomes gold:
five fish, two loaves of bread sort of scenario.
                           it's a remainder -
it cannot be eradicated, denied or be left into a limbo
of diminished responsibility
      it's man concern with how language should
look and how painting should feel:
               the fact that we created art from letters
and forgot our concern for art representing forms
is not postmodernism, it's post-Platonism; finally!
of course the s and the z are the crude and the refined
versions of each other via the transition of
being modulated by the chirality enzyme,
          but they're still called zigzag twins -
there's no delta involved akin to one face of a pyramid.
how grand then, to be living in a time
when a single phonetic encoding of sound
transcends into complex meaning:
akin to s and sigma and what's mathematically
the sum / total of constipated matter...
                    strange how the Cartesian model
falters thus,
           the fact that i think is never the ending
causality of my being's summation:
           it's but a summary, but never the summation /
sum - it's never the arithmetically sound answer:
hence the god-implant, or as i said:
the remainder, which i can't erase from the realm
of thought.
                 by the way? no Jew could have wrote as
much about their god as i have:
as said: the crucifixion was worthwhile,
      but there was no question that Latin had
to remain -
                     what was saved was the Latin encoding,
not some puny redemption from doing ****...
**** no! you couldn't create robotics or write
software without Latin: no other encoding has as
many "blank" hula hoops as already provided:
Q, R, o, P, p, A, a, D, d, g, b, B...
        26 x 2? 52 - and of those how many are spies
that we are descended from the gods and can
create our slowly-ascending replicas in robotics?
as the list suggests: 12.
     should i call up St. Peter and the rest to work
out the ******* numbers of correlation in
the framework of mirror / anti?
                      ah, the eagerly waiting public:
speak of the devil... and he shall appear.
      that ****'s been going on since the death of a man
in the year 1900...
           and oh my, the search has been gruelling,
you have Western Europe remembering the 1st
and Eastern Europe trying to not remember the 2nd...
   the name's Mars... while i say: try Moby **** first:
because god knows what's lurking in the depth.
or maybe i got my bearings wrong? maybe language
truly is a statement of Bermuda magnetics
that makes all compasses into twirling ballerinas?
to me? what comes with authenticity is a good joke,
nothing remotely suggesting a seriousness:
or as Wittgenstein said: have a joke, make a joke,
compose everything with a joke in mind -
        oh the fringe minority still have a bargain on
identity in this field, they're brewing their next cup
of tea brown-nosing and fidgeting over how to
answer... oh i'm mad enough to turn on the Mr. Bombastic
attitude, 1L of whiskey in a single night goes a long
way in terms of unwinding and making vocab verbiage,
or counter to that: something worthy of an antique status.
still, a reminder, the yhwh is the Jews' great
present, expressed dutifully in English as equivalent
of the mathematical remainder:
                      only because the diacritical bargain
wasn't met with much approval:
what with the elites wanting to push a global rather than
a solely Mediterranean twist on the plot of how:
a revival?          well... combing back to the ulterior
motive for graffiti, an elitist sport, your handwriting
over printed press rather than Coca Cola sorta similar
on a brick wall: i'm telling you, handwriting is
a bit like wanking these days...
         but isn't it true that when we write we are
sorta becoming radiologists? aren't poems essential
x-rays? am i not simply showing you my bones?
these isn't skeletal? you sure?
and there's me thinking that America is on
the threshold of romanticising the French Revolution,
with the former concern? to reinstate a Polish
state, i.e. the Duchy of Warsaw...
              but it's not really a first world war reparations
injustice while the Germans used money instead
of wood to warm themselves in winter...
no, nothing can be said that would ever appeal
to the fact that the Third ***** was milked:
not even Indiana Jones had a ******* of that horror;
me? i took the best of the ****** affair,
the fully bewildered insurance broker of the zeitgeist:
Heidegger, and yes, i made more apologetics with
him than philosophy: as with an fatal attraction:
be it the bazar flute charmer of the cobra -
this one is bound to sting in the ***.
then another thing hit me, usually an internet
variance off state media... you ever wonder why
very claustrophobic pronoun usage (frequent interchange)
is almost equivalent of brawling with someone?
dreams of Angelique:
                     imagine a scene at a protest (two people):
- i doesn't matter what you think! your opinions are not relevant!
- true, as is the case of: you don't matter with regards
                 to what i think.
anyone spot this concentrated pronoun use
for the purpose of aversed violence via a degradation
emphasis, concerned with defending sported violence
but not social injustice : turned into justified violence?
   (yes, colon as ratio, variant of fractions,
meaning? less comparative literature of the fraction,
   and more divergence of authority within the Libra
of what's necessarily unfair: the whole is no authority
to distribute fairness);
  it's just that i feel the relentless overuse of pronouns
in a confrontation symbolises a need to use the body
rather than the tongue -
when too many pronouns are interchanged
and the repugnant pronoun collectivisation begins
the paranoid "they" and the sane "we" -
            well... Rη-oh! Rη-oh! Rη-oh!     (sheen sheen Mecca
       ism)
                             well hardly ref. to Brazil: rhy ate!
rhy ate!
                see how that tetragrammaton remainder just,
like, plops up like a baby gazelle from the mama
gazelle's ******? plop! and no diapers either.
ah: the cruelty. or as someone said:
  few letters are given geometric status, or at least
something remotely symbolising twins,
but still there are a few:
   m - sine (trigonometry)
   w - cosine (     "              )
  Δ - Pythagoras for short
      LΓ - the right hand
                  and the left hand in the non-superimposable
          categorisation of things
   ψ - the devil's barrister / i.e. a fork
     also 8008135 upside-down on a calculator screen
(insert a weird face) -
   χ - compass convergence, i.e. the point b
        you need to get to from your starting point oh,
and i guess H       for a rugby goal...
             oh hell, only a few phonetic encodings make
it out of blah blah land -
                       and without really wanting
to orientate myself on the origins of things:
i'm getting a suntan basking in all of this
in the immediate sense: actually using it.
                             and to think: we actually think
about what we talk about using only 26 symbols?
that's ****** effective,
                             which is why we were so keen
to spread out encoding system to think / say things.
and why the Chinese felt the greatest pull of gravity
in all of mankind and due to their ideograms
got pulled way way down and just say there:
which enabled them to reproduce on a scale such as
is apparent to us exporting our manual labour to
them: who the hell would want to learn
unit wording when it can be wording units?
       they have words we treat as onomatopoeia
shrapnel -
                   which is why we have enshrined ourselves
to sit on laurel leaves with Mozart:
     if ever us, then never us: linguistic atomists
                                            who perversely dissect
words into, what i can only call: a Lingua Table of
the 26 elements. it's there, it's naked, compared
with the diacritical approach: English is all
and Adam & Eve ready for a voyeuristic spelling
out of realities
- hence the plural:
    there was never one intentional crowd-surfer out
there to make people form cults, plagiarise
and sooner than later: get lost.

— The End —