Coffee Cup.

Coffee cup



My life is at the bottom of a coffee cup,

and thoughts are all I have left to paint.

Peace inside the pressure that is the weight upon my shoulders,

Over and over I run the race with myself.

Not enough.

No matter what I turn my hand to.

I wash them both in the rivers and let myself fall through.

Mountains upon mountains

Fire is my climb,

The burn marks healed of passion


Written into my spine.


As I lay in a day without sun I wonder

is there light at all?

Embers of a forgotten life

dance in shadows on my wall.

They form faces that talk to me,

and feel like my only friends

that exist in the absence of light

with words I write with my own pen.

Again I remember the temple

A castle I have built

With gold leaking from fingertips

like the ink that I once spilt

upon the poem that I wrote

that I meant to give to you.

But shy is a heart that is bruised

when opaque is the colour of you.

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