the toaster oven ticks constantly
reminding me something is almost ready to
burn my tongue
make me curse
wish everyone in the room has a bad day with me.
if coffee were the ocean
i'd live up in the hills
where i could still smell it,
but not have to drink or sail
along it's roasted popularity.
don't ask me to drink something
when i'm lightheaded- it only
makes you look like an imbecile.
there's a million symptoms out there
and the only one i want
is a coma,
or one that leads to death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem