Tears of sorrow.

Tears of sorrow.

Tears of joy?

I don’t

differentiate

anymore…

coffee

When Hemingway writes

coffee

but doesn’t really

write about coffee

I crave it

Taste it

I smell it’s sorrow

And pour a cup

As the morning becomes I

And I the morning’s passing

we shot to kill

It sucks

it’s burnt

it’s hard to swallow.

I chew the fat

then choke down

bile.

For now

mouthfuls

of blood and oil.

As I spit flesh

it stinks

of sorrow.

A few more bites

just choke

and swallow.

For what it’s worth

we shot to kill

and did.