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a virtual lifebehind my avatar
I am queen of a wonderful world
I am a female warrior of a strange country
I am a werewolf
in real life
I am a girl who waits for the love
I am a girl who dreams from another life
I am a girl insignificant buried in the mass
It's Your Sick WorldYou're bold, you're stupid, the blame game is your friend.
Pointing fingers, shouting names,
none of them your own.
Swollen bellies, teenage bodies, where's the father,
why the bother?
Drugs replacing, mind is racing, colours facing, love escaping.
Designer brands determine friendships,
the popular ruining it all.
See the girl in the chair, dead in the centre,
judged, broken, offended, broken.
What do you do?
Judge, break, offend, BREAK!
Tear down the creative,
shatter the artistic.
This is your life,
walking a fake line.
Cherish it, or don't.
It's your sick world.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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