I used to sit in coffee shops and write. I loved smelling the coffee and hearing the sound of clinking plates as the baristas served pastries to the sitting customers. I was social back then and I would make conversation with anyone sitting near my table. This happened often and I always sat there, amazed that strangers were willing to share intimate stories about themselves. Everyone had a story that was worth writing about.
All conversations must come to an end and when the stories stopped, my inspiration would nudge my pen and I would write poems about each person that I came across.
One day, at a local coffee shop in Stockton, I came across a man that was extremely intelligent. He loved literature and could talk about any classic novel or writer. I was amazed at how much he knew. He told me that his life was so chaotic that he did not have the opportunity to go to college. His dream was to become an English literature professor. He was also a writer.
He shared his life story with me and I wrote this poem for him.
Words of wisdom
A tongue that can expand the mind
He doesn’t know that he is one of a kind
But those that are liberated never do
“Baby momma issues,” he says
But I say that’s a story
It seems like he is a king of ink
With paper he makes a masterpiece
Not the kind that is seen though
But the kind that hides and never wants to be in the spotlight
It doesn’t matter though
As long as he is free
I wrote the poem on the spot and gave it to him.
It looked like he fell in love in with me lol He had wild eyes and proceeded to tell me that he was on meth and that he knew I wouldn’t judge him. He then invited me to his house because he wanted to “make love to me.”
I just want to say writers are crazy as hell.