Become so contemplative with a cup of caffeine that has been cold and waiting to be consumed.
I sit with pen in hand that occasionally being spun.
Seeking for muse, a piece of dark-brown paper waiting to filled with ink.
Even when escorted by melody, a teeny weeny impulse does not come up.
The clock feels quickly ticking like I drive my mom’s old Avalon off from Buitenzorg to Batavia.
I scratch out random thoughts on the blank triggering an afflatus to flow.
No pop up. No show up. And completely screw up.
I drink my cold coffee that is not cold brew.
Getting no pleasure from it, I go to the kitchen making an espresso tiramisu.
Expecting next minutes not to be messed up.
Writing verse to be memorable even if it is a simple three lines of haiku.
Sipping my fresh new coffee, still no hints to be written.
Feeling like the old paper, punched by boredom.
Losing the expectation, where is my inspiration?
Writer: Lista R