Waffle House Instromental
The bunn-o-matic buzzes, busily making fresh brew, making a new beat, singing to me. Calling me to write down its smell and flavor on my tounge. My coffee filled coffee cup warms my hands and calms me from the violent, loud, vibrating of my brothers foot on the bench next to me. My headache soothes as my patience grows thin. A quarter, for a song, for a distraction. My brothers foot now moves to the beat of the song and the bunn-o-matic now becomes one with the backround. Maybe, now, ill stop my brothers foot from wakeing me from my thoughts. I decide agianst it, and join him. ^._.^its the first type of poem ive ever written like this. moast my poems are feelings let me know how i can improve Written January 22nd, 2002 © on Jan 22 2002 09:57 AM PST 10 • 0 • 14
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"The bunn-o-matic buzzes, busily making fresh brew, making a new beat, singing to me. Calling me to write down its smell and flavor on my tounge. ..."