Coffee and a Poem

When I write poetry, it is with pen and paper and hand; I prefer this over modern means. When I drink my coffee, it is dark and black because life isn’t bitter enough.

Often I find myself sitting outside staring and wondering till something comes to mind. I smoke my cigar and drink my brew because it is what I prefer to do.

There is no right. There is no wrong. They’re only impressions of life, gives and takes - Because without ups and Downs, just what would you write?

Yes, poetry and coffee go hand-in-hand and exist the same as song and dance. Open wounds can be a Muse, yes, the kind that do not mend.

What shall I write on this chill and windy day? Will it rhyme, will it flow - what are the words I choose to say? I don't know; I'll keep writing, and then we will see what will be.

It is getting cold, and my hands are becoming stiff, but somehow, the ink still flows parallel to the endless waves. Onward I nudge my pen; let us finish this poem.

And like that, the wind has relaxed, and my paper no longer flops. But still, the sky is dark - and here comes the rain - it's best that I finish; I don't want my words being washed away.