In a coffee shop, I write down my thoughts.
Never know if I am good enough,
Or when the thoughts will stop.
So much doubt, so much double guessing myself.
Questioning the choices I make, wondering
Why I am who I am, why I do what I do;
Why I say what I say; why music plays inside my head.
Wondering when the world will stop, and let me play,
If I am witnessing the end, or the beginning of May.
When I think like this, the caffeine imprint, on my fingerprint
Looses the grip, my mind starts to trip, with the coffee drip.
I said only a tenth of what I wanted to say. I put down the words, like
A body into the ground. I never know when the other shoe will drop.
I think it’s dropping now.
I have an egg drop brain, a catastrophic whirlwind of peace thru pain,
And back again. I’ll never be the same, why would I want to be?
You will never see me, for what I am to be–a clown or a clod, a Rock or a stone.
Regurgitating the words, like a choking victim.
Never been one to pat myself on my back. Or maybe that’s all that I am.
Is the hat that I wear. I swear, I don’t belong anywhere.
This coffee clubbed aroma, the lies I tell you.
The ones that say I care.
I am just another backgammon game in your memory.
Another kiss on the cheek.
The prisoners last meal. I will be gone, and you will just
And all that will be left is words,
And a memory.
Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His latest collection Train of Thought: Poems From the Red Line, is now available for purchase.