A fresh morning in a shabby hotel
Sunshine pouring through open drapes
Heavy, yet obviously threadbare
Blinded; only seeing abstract shapes
Sitting on the edge with a warm mug
Need to move, but my legs won’t go
A few more moments in this peace
Hell begins once I’ve finished this cup of joe
When my time is finished
You may say whatever you want about me
That I never grew up
That I contain no redeeming qualities
My words were hollow & juvenile
My attempts at piracy weren’t any good
But one thing will never be said
That I didn’t love her the best I could
Those words come to me in those coffee dreams
A spontaneous marvel of literary delight
There’s a difference between manufactured beauty
& a real beauty, founded by nature’s authentic right
But I can’t explain the nuances with the definition
I’m not one to judge such subjective whims
Focusing on my own qualms & dangling thoughts
Let us sit, pour another cup, let’s solve these problems
I’m not bothered by such trifling issues as rules
Let them worry about my intents & being misconstrued
I let my chosen pages explain all I’m willing to
I’m more concerned if that pot has finished it’s brew
“It always seems impossible until its done.” – Nelson Mandela
Captain Q 