Dear Coffee,
The smell of you is something unmatched.
The dark brown color that quickens my heart.
I long for you when I don't have you with me.
My insides twist at the thought of another sip.
The delicacy that you bring to my life,
Is hard to match.
The options that your produce,
Make it hard to choose.
Thank you for the energy that you provide.
You are the reason I wake up every morning.
Always yours,
The coffee addict.
About the Creator
Lauren Dee
I have had very disturbing dreams my whole life. I write fictional short stories, rants and poems all based off of my experiences in life. They can be dark, but it's the only way I can get them out of my mind.
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More stories from Lauren Dee and writers in Poets and other communities.
Wild Waves of Gold
Trembling wheat in the sun-baked winds look like wild waves of gold, skillfully swaying in the glittering day—the fields are an endless and open invitation that calls the free wanderers, the dreamers, and anyone needing a change of pace into its splendor, into its sense of comfortability, into a world separate from the concrete and gray—we may tremble with it—with the wheat spun from the blazing sun, with the carefree visions that may be out of reach for many, including ourselves. The rat race dies here and the unwavering winds bury it in soil while we dance as free as the wheat does.
By Andi Leighabout 17 hours ago in Poets
The Voyeur's Incandescent Reasoning
The woman sat nonplussed, in the Waiting Room. In a sort of daze, looking straight ahead patiently. She had already had three small breakfast's that morning and a nip of sherry, this was not unusual she would typically wait until an hour after she took her anti-depressant and was her morning routine. She was merely following instructions she assured herself, shifted slightly in her seat and feeling a little heart burn thought, maybe she should skip lunch. Dom had said to have the task done this week. She was well used to his methods and desired to get this over and done with soon. She glanced at her watch, smiled weakly at the Receptionist who was there for a moment and then gone.
By Canuck Scriber L.Lachapelle Author6 days ago in Fiction
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