The question has to be asked, “How hard can it be,
for a man to get a decent cup of tea”?
How can people get something so simple so wrong?
A question that has vexed me for ever so long.

Let me be clear, lest there be any confusion
I’m not into tea leaves or these fancy new infusions
Nor herbal or green, earl grey or the rest
A good plain cup of tea is simply the best!

I wonder why it is that people bother to ask
When they will not put any real effort into the task
Yes they are careful to ask how you take your tea
But what you get is something different, entirely

If there is one thing that really gets to me
It is being made a half cup of tea
I always opt for a mug because there’s never enough in a cup
But for some reason they seem incapable of filling it up!

After just two mouthfuls, Surprise! It is all gone!
I hate always having to ask for another one
All the effort they made has gone to waste
The whole experience leaving a very bad taste.

Making tea is a formula, very hard to get wrong
why so often served weak when I always ask for strong?
A small drop of milk please, how hard can it be?
But I often get tea in my milk, not milk in my tea

I do like my sugar and to tell the truth
I do possess an awfully sweet tooth
“three and a bit” I say when they ask
But is stirring it such an impossible task?

How easy can it be? Just move the ****** spoon
You were just standing there, what else were you doing?
And to see all that sugar sitting there at the end
Would drive the most sane person round the bend

Another thing I get really mad about
Is when people do not take the teabag out
And though the cup appears to be full to the top
You take the bag out and watch the level drop

You might think it’s funny but it’s certainly not
What to do with a teabag that is dripping hot?
A cup of tea is supposed to help you relax
Not be the cause of minor heart attacks

And the biggest evil, by far the worst
Is those who serve tea, knowing the teabag has burst
At the end you get a mouthful of leaves and grit
I do love my tea but wonder if it is worth it.

It got to the stage where I considered drinking coffee
But I was bamboozled by the variety available to me
Mocha or latte, perhaps a frappuccino,
Or maybe an espresso or a cappuccino

No, the idea of drinking coffee just left me cold
all I really wanted was a cup of tea truth be told,
Though I have been accused of taking this issue too seriously
There is nothing in the world quite like…. a decent cup of Tea!

gracing the streets,
with her pink stilleto
and a pricy frappuccino—
she barely sips
they can't take their eyes off her,
well, who would?
even i,
i can't.

she has class and elegance,
money, power—
what else is missing?
oh, i know,
the reason i stared at her for a minute.
i just can't forget,
how unbothered she is
when she threw the empty cup
on the ground.
i wonder why
she doesn't use her bills
to buy some manners?
oh wait—
i forgot--
that's not for sale.

you were always being practical

you never did anything if it wasn't logical

always using the other bathroom instead of the one closest to the theatre

cause "there's always a line." so i waited for you by that giant cylinder
alone
i swear i would have walked right up to that ****** with you if it meant i didn't have to be
alone.

holding hands constantly cause it was my proof that you loved me
life line. whenever you let go that indigo line beneath my translucent skin would beg to run red.
but i grabbed back on just in time to save myself.
save myself.
from who?

you. you're *****

disgusting
sick

don't touch me

i don't know who else has felt it

you swore, you meant it
you cried
my father still wears sunglasses when he's in the same room as my mother
and his hands have long since dried up from the night michael died
boys don't cry.

swallowed my pride every time i swallowed you
bitter
even though i knew
better
in the back of my head
but giving head was better than you
losing your head and this is my fault
i was crazy
i saw a shrink. i was fabricating these things.

i saw this coming, i saw this coming, coming, *******, going

away.

three weeks ago you saw the ruins of my people
the souls of dead mayans embedded into the sagging stone steps
i heard them scream my name as you crept to the top
and with a sigh you took it in
majestic, isn't it?
never seen something so
real before

what? like it was some sort of rare sight?

why? you saw my ruins all the time

are you blind?
blind?
blind
blind i can't see
i can't see you anymore
i can't see you anymore.
i....i can't see you anymore but i feel you under my covers
your toes discovering the places my feet have danced
and your mocha frappuccino skin crashing over my snow white like a wave
your fingers brushing over my zebra stripes asking why, not knowing that those same fingers put them there

i'm not breaking

you can drop your hammer now


when i was 14

i walked home with the taste of cherries in my mouth and

i didn't eat for three days just so i could

be with you.

was it because i wouldn't forget my weekends

inside red cups and fake friends

or wouldn't snort lines and --

nevermind.

that only happened once or twice.

i saved you from that avalanche.

i promised i would try every time

and even when i was hacking away at my skin,

trying to find an answer from within

and i wiped the blood across the dresser

and drew pictures of you and her.

and her.

and her.

and him.

maybe it was your pain more than mine.

The Vanilla Bean Frappuccino,
who brings chills down my spine every time.
Sweet on the inside, cold-hearted on the outside,
Especially when he leaves me high and dry
in the morning unexpectedly.
He’ll remind me that I’m alive,
And make me feel Zen for a split second,
Then he splits in a second.
Or
The Caramel Macchiato,
Tall with a sophisticated smile
And unrealistically hazel eyes
That read “bello” around his irises.
With a shot of expression—
He’s never afraid to speak how he feels.
But that’s just the Italian in him.
Or
The Pumpkin Spice Latte,
The most popular guy.
He’ll warm me up when I’m cold;
And make me feel like I’m his only one,
He’ll tell me everything I want to hear,
Then he’ll disappear without a sign—
At least until the next year,
Only to continue the same cycle over again.
Or
The Cappuccino,
He’s got a strong mind
like those French roast blends
With a secret soft side.
He speaks with fluidity and is
As charismatic as the rest.
He’s a morning person nonetheless,
And won’t leave me loveless
In the sheets like Mr. Vanilla Bean sometimes does.
Or
The Teavana Chai Tea Latte
He sounds fancy, does he not?
He’s different to say the least,
Layered with many spices,
And from cinnamon trees,
He’s warm-hearted, yet feisty.
Gentle, yet fatuously energetic.
Soft spoken, yet bold,
He doesn’t have to do much
To have me sold to his trance.

Now for me to decide what I want
As more people file in, deliberating the same
Line up as I, but they have more to
Choose from.
Perhaps I should loosen up some, and go
With last one.

If I had a blog what would it be ?

Would I blog about twitting?
Tweet about texting?
Text about bloging?

Will I sip on an organic double frappuccino?
Will I miss MJ?
Will I have a tea cup Chihuahua?
Will I hate the hills?
Will I be dealing with   bulimia?
Watching TMZ?
Liveing green?
Will my iPhone my big sunglasses be in my   louis vuitton handbag?
Will all this be something to talk about?
Will it still be "in"?
Or will outher things that I hate take it's place?

Will my blog be overrated?
Or will only old ppl like it?

Or will it be, anti-social anti-fashion
I hate everything even myself
self mutalating artsie fartsie
wannabe rabel who are also AS over rated

whatever...

((If I wred this blog, I'd hate it))

They ain't  got *****,
They can't have *****,
Ugh they always go to Starbucks and order a frappuccino "**** them rich uppity white ******* get on my nerves."
They all listen to One Direction and 5 Seconds of Summer,
"I really wish I had white girl hair."
All white girls have to be this, have to do that,
This is my average day at school.
It's not true.
I know because I am a white girl
But I'm not your "typical" one,
I listen to Pantera and Phish,
I don't "always" go to Starbucks.
And I have an *** thank you very much,
I'm not rich,
I'm not poor,
I have the same anatomic structure as everybody else,
I don't need to be singled out for something that isn't true about me.
White people aren't the only that can have stereotypes made about them.

So pleasure twists to grief—
Sweet Eve looks for just relief.
We were looking only for release.
Because Adam died.


Adam died.

Buy the cheapest train ticket to a town you’ve never heard of.
Get off at the fourth stop and go to the nearest bar.
Flirt with the unattainable and fight the unbeatable.
Once you’re kicked out, head to the nearest gas station.
Stock up on Skittles, Starbucks frappuccino, powdered donuts and sour gummy worms.
Talk to the guy behind the register about how much you love your friends, tolerate your mom but definitely not about how much you hate yourself.
On your way out buy a cheap Polaroid camera and head to the local park.
Ask people to take pictures of you in front of the fountain, weird trees, sitting on benches or laying in the grass.
Look through the photos and smile, because this is you at your finest.
Go to the movies and throw popcorn at every love scene.
Visit a cathedral, sit in the last pew and just look up.
I can guarantee the most breathtaking paintings will be up there, so drink it all in.
Mail yourself a letter back home about all the little things that make you happy.
Call your first love from a payphone and pour your heart out, even if it goes to voicemail.
Go to a playground and swing until your feet touch the sky.
Buy a homeless man a Happy Meal and listen to his life story.
Invite the girl you met at the bar to a picnic under the stars.
Ask her about forgotten dreams and do not go home with her.
Visit the local library and write uplifting lyrics on Post-It Notes and stick them in your favorite books.
Go find a lake or a river, a creek or whatever and look at your reflection.
This is you, beautiful, talented, confident, one-of-a-kind you.
Do as you please now.
Swim, cry, or skip rocks.
Then go home and forget everything you did, but remember everything you felt.

Writing this poem in the corner of this coffee shop
Two glass of grande-sized coffee
Frappuccino, Mochaccino
are just not enough I guess

Seeing you walking around the room
Talking, acting too beautifully to be remembered
Touching the girl I would never want to be
I am just who I am I suppose
I am just not like her I suppose

Putting your hands in the pocket of your dark blue Levi's jeans
Stepping up high through the sole of your light grey Van's sneakers
Laughing too much, talking too beautifully
Smiling too seductively, brushing your hair too manly

Am I just not enough for you, Darling?
I've been waiting for quite a whole month just to see you physically

Am I just not enough for you, Darling?
I've been waiting for you 'til my eyes flooded by my own tears

Am I just not enough for you, Darling?
**Am I just not enough for you, Darling?

I do not have to meet you
so I can say that you're beautiful.
I know that you are,
and I know that you are gentle,
I know that you are kind,
welcoming, and forgiving.

I do not know but one day,
maybe I'll meet you on a busy day
as a patient or as a doctor,
or maybe on a warm Saturday,
as you call my name
written on a venti frappuccino.

All these uncertainties
will eventually lead me to that one moment
where I can say, "it makes sense now."
Why I had to hold the wrong hands,
why I had to lie in wrong rooms.

One day, I'll wake up and look,
there's the warmest smile in the world,
with the softest eyes and gentlest touch.
And he'll be angry at me sometimes,
but never disrespectful, never violent.

I will hold on to the many years
that I will spend not knowing you.
Until then, I will let everything
to not make sense yet,
and ready myself for the perfect moment.

My mother and I  met on Cupid.com
I was thirteen and she was forty-five;
but on her profile she was listed as
twenty-nine. We agreed to meet
at the local Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon.

The sun was out;
it's rays like orange sprinkles dusting
the dead, green earth
and snake-like sidewalks.

I sat in the far corner, my head
in a book; every now and then
peeking over the pages my
finger bookmarked. I was reading
******, and I had not made it
past the first page. Lo-Lee-
Ta, or something rather.

She arrived ten minutes later
than the time we agreed on,
but I wasn't angry. She offered
to buy me a Iced Vanilla Frappuccino
and salted caramel cake-pop but I declined.

We sat there for what seemed like a decade.
I was too busy looking around; acting
like I was admiring the art on the walls;
and she was playing with her hands;
humming to a popular female folk singer-
songwriter that was playing over the loudspeakers.

'I can go,' she said after the track finished.

'No, it's okay.
Stay, please' I said.

There was silence.

'It's been a while since I've seen you'
she said.

'I know, I know' I said,
'You lied
about your age.
That's not cool'

'Sorry about that.
I just didn't know
if you'd like me
if I was older
than forty..'

'That's the entire point,
no?' I interrupted.

And I didn't notice
she had bad posture
until she started fidgeting
with her hair; it was in a loose,
unkempt bun. She tugged
at the hair tie until
it all fell down to her shoulders.

I was finally relieved
to see that I had a beautiful
mother and soon suggested
that we go to her place
and talk about my childhood.

She smiled, and made
an attempt to grab the car
keys she left on the table,
but I was quicker.

'No,' I said laughing,
'I'm driving'.

And that was the first
time I ever took charge;
and nothing has changed since.

On this chilly café
    independently, I sat.
To this Toffee Nut
    Frappuccino, I sipped.
With my never ending reverie
    called “self-pity”,
I am consumed.

Paved way for this
    sudden urge to get
    my purple-inked pen, and
    my nasty leather brown notebook,
    from my old blue sling bag.

What to write?
Believe me, I have no idea.
I just feel like to scribble
    this nonsense out from
    my littered thoughts, and
    disarrayed emotions of this
    solitary state called “singlehood”.

For where are those shoulders
     to lean on?
Where are those hands to hold?
Where are those sparkling eyes
    that stares back?
Where are those?
Where are those?

When can I ever
    have someone to share
    this table with?
When can I ever
    hear another heartbeat
    next to mine?
When can I ever read my poetry
    to this “special one”?
When can I?
When can I?

So now, five minutes left
    is all I have.
I’ll be packing my things now,
    stop this senseless scribbling,
    head to the office,
    with coffee on my hand.

This reverie, I must halt.
To rather remind myself:
   “Hey, today’s a brand new day.
     and who knows?
     *Who Knows?”