Coffee Shoppe Hookie

Cowering in the corner behind my laptop and cold stale venti dark roast                
Disappearing from work because of this addiction, this desperate need to poet or I will die meaninglessly                
                 
Glancing up from the existentially blank page and flickering cursor I study their faces                
Are they potential inspirations, fellow Bohemians, or truant officers                
                 
Swirling ideas, sabotaging doubt, and nagging glumness                
All fueling this writer's block that threatens to unveil me as a phony, a poser, a pathetic cliché                  
                 
Inspired by the masters, those timeless artisans that capture the essence of being human with rhyme, meter, and profundity                
                 
Wondering could I ever be that good or am I victim of this superficial, Facebook, Twitter, soundbite riddled electronic second coming of the Dark Ages                
                 
Sure I have had my clever pithiness, my diamonds in the ruff, those fleeting moments of authenticity                
But why oh why aren't they enough, why isn't there more                
                 
Then the self scolding, we poets must suffer for our art by driving the nails in one by one ourselves                
Wrestling with each rewrite, struggling to free that tortuous meaning locked below the surface                
                 
Lovers, family, and friends don't get it, especially when it fails to rhyme                
Changing the subject to sports, politics, or reality television                
                 
Can't they see that this is it, what really matters                
Forgeting that the unexamined life is not worth living                
My nightmare, after examination I conclude there was nothing                
worth examining all along                
                 
But still the blinking cursor torments me, saying FAKER, FAKER, FAKER, FAKER                
Daring me to shut the computer off, or better yet slam the laptop on Starbuck's floor to the cheer of the patrons standing in line                
                 
Then I come back down to earth, realizing that they are oblivious of me                
All too self-absorbed talking on their cells, glued to the iPads, only listening through their headsets - reducing our beautiful language to modern primative grunting via texts and tweets               
                 
If only one of them would be caught by my lonely, searching eyes and come join me                
Peeling off the rusted armor, knocking down the stone walls, and embracing vulnerability                
                 
Joining me at the table like a modern day Poe, Dickinson, or Frost                
Cutting through the superficial pleasantries and sharing the raw, naked essence of their immortal soul                
                 
HOLY SHIT ... GOTTA GO ... JUST SAW MY BOSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!