it's the mist of the coffee laying on the table
the usual white noise, playing in the background
and the little droplets of water pouring full of sound
give me, give me, the peace of my sanctuary
alone, maybe, with no one
and trying to fall between the plates, afraid to be gone
vanishing, from what?
from the pebbles of the laying paper in the table
Rain, coffee, mist, and atmosphere
all together lovely to be near
however, it's meant for my words to gradually appear
now my tears are pouring because the moments of never stir
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
