Two cups, please.

just a quick poem, i said.
uttered as the caffeine circulated
once again,
through my vains
and arteries going to my heart.
it's hard to write a quick poem
when those thoughts
that are always on hold,
resist to come out.
so you stare at the ceiling.
to stare at the ceiling and think,
is so cliched and old you thought.
you thought yesterday when you drank
that black bitter coffee to wake yourself up,
from always staring at walls and ceilings.
it isn't yesterday anymore but rather
it's actually, well, it's quite late.
just a quick poem, i said.
but who can write something quick,
even if it isn't structured,
and the chaos between the lines,
details the mounds of evidence,
that point to your insanity.
perhaps a conversation,
in a poem of shortened length.
dialogue but not necessarily,
because it's just one person
speaking, writing, breathing.
perhaps a monologue,
of your declining being,
your inapt ways,
or the simple means,
to express yourself.
just a quick poem, i said.
like a guillotine to those little
thoughts up inside my head.
just a quick poem, when sleep
isn't on the mind's list of things to do.
just a poem is, perhaps.
just a poem or two.