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.