Coffee bean stare.

Last night, after I chopped myself to pieces

I got a coffee and it was good.

But the atmosphere still held the questioning affair,

Since I failed at drowning confusion in blood.

But sometimes, they say, ignorance is bliss,

Which is only true when the bass plays a different chord than you thought.

So I'm sitting below the ochestra crying,

With a vanity mirror sitting in front of me.

And how glass works is such a delightful metaphor,

Casting one shadow on one plain and another on another.

So blame me please, because it's all my fault.

I know, I drank the last of the bean.

I pilfered the essence of the dining room table,

And slash-and-burn planted my crops in your heart.

It was what I wanted all my life, and you could've just told me.

Next time you decide to feed the flames,

Feed them with our combined effort.

At least converse about the coffeehouse manner,

Before you intend to draw the conclusion.

And so I sit in chopped up pieces.

Feeling worse than before.