They sit; all mellow and cool,
Under candlelight, and pretend to think,
Their small cup of coffee is merely for decoration,
as well as the literature books scattered across the table,
They listen to soft sweeping music and some scribble the
finest writing ever, while others still pretend to think,
The best go out into the world and read their amazing
thoughts that they have written,
Why can’t I? So I don’t waste my time at coffee shacks,
or burn the midnight oil,
maybe I do blast my music and work under hot burning lights,
It shouldn’t matter that my desk isn’t cluttered with the work of famous
writers, maybe I do occasionally sip my caffeine filled cup;
does that make me less than they are?
Does that make my work secondary to theirs?
I don’t want to be the same, but can’t I be different too?
