Late nights, red-rimmed eyes,
Hair as greasy as McDonald's fries,
Sluggish mind, grouchy mood,
Many bright screens were viewed.
One yawn, and then two,
Exhaustion grew and grew,
The phone falls from your hands,
On your sleeping face it lands.
Show still playing with none to see,
What happens in episode three.
Pink lips quiver, letting fall
A drop of drool oh so small.
Next morning you awake,
Brush your hair, ignore dandruff flakes.
Late to school or late to work,
Both make you feel berserk.
Slow mind, spinning head,
Inside your soul, you feel dead.
But caffeine seems to help,
So you head over to the shelf.
The one with the stale sweets,
Grandma gave to you as a treat
For watering her plants while she was away
For vacation at Hudson Bay.
Next to the strawberry bonbons,
Across from the candied pecans,
Lies the cheapest coffee you could find
Some Folgers, with no need to grind,
Pour the water in, and soon comes out
The brown liquid drips from the spout.
Your sunken eyes eagerly watch
As the steaming coffee fills the pot.
The aroma rises towards your nose,
A symphony of smells it does compose.
Your patience has worn thin,
The drinking must now begin.
Glossy midnight in your cup,
You breathe in deep and raise it up
To your mouth and then you sip
The coffee burns your lip.
The taste of hell itself
Fills every inch of your mouth
Burning bodies, tortured souls
Favor the drink you now hold.
Fecal matter barbecued,
Is much better than this hell you brewed.
The slimy fluid slides down your throat,
Low quality this does denote.
This poison you still drink
Is evil, colored black as ink.
But you hope that energy will arise
From this trash that repulses even flies.
Add some creamer or half and half.
"As if that'll help!", the devil laughs.
Add sweet sugar or whipping cream,
But the taste of hell will remain supreme.
Please spare yourself.
Put that Folgers back on the shelf.
Leave that cursed thing alone.
It tastes like rotting eggs and crushed bone.
Grinding coffee beans,
Is worth it, by all means.
Or maybe try some tea.
Some kinds contain caffeine.
Whatever you do,
Know that this is true.
Folgers is hell in a cup.
It'll make even the toughest throw-up.
You've been warned.
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A Collection of Short Stories, Poems, and Other Crap
RandomA description? Gee. I just wanted to chuck my thoughts at any unsuspecting reader. But I'll make a description for y'all. Like lighting, inspiration strikes a writer. Ideas flood their mind, so many beautiful ideas. Imagination and words combine i...