Pretentious Writer in an even more Pretentious Starbucks

It sits there lying beckoning to me.

Its whiteness, its blankness glows back

While the light dances with my mocha cocoa latte

And I can’t help but wonder why won’t it dance with me?

Jessie, where is the creative spark? I know I can

Always write about you, darling, because you

Are stars. Oh no. Not another cliché. This

Pining for something original, something legendary

Where Beats in Paris and Prague can peer over

My full pages instead of the empty ones digitized in a laptop

Taunting me. Don’t tell me to be quiet, that I am

Disturbing other promising writers! I know they have

Their grace from the muses, but I am trying to find

My place among them! They can sip their coffees

Typing frantically ignoring the spell check

Button milking the poetic moment. Let them

Stare at the murals mimicking exactly what they are doing

When I am sitting here trying to be philosophical

And deeply entrenched in the anguish of other humans.

Yes! Yes, I know they write without a care! Don’t

Remind me that in all actuality they are

Typing memos to their bosses and shuffling paper

Making money. I am making art! Or so I wish to

Think I am. My art is everything to me. It is more

Important than everyone else’s daily lives and

No one disturbs a writer when they are working.

Face it, Jessie. Being a secretary is never the same thing

As traveling the world through a thought of how things are.

I love you, but I love my writing more. And I’m sorry

Things had to be this way. Fine then, curse me with my blinking

Black line in the middle of a white computer screen!

Jessie, you know me. I never go through these blocks.

Let me write about your stars. Let me write about your hair.

Let me write your anything.