I wrote another poem when I supposed to be eating breakfast.

[apocalypsos]

*stomach growls*

*

Spoiled

How I begin to make my tea is,
I sneer in disgust at the
economy-sized box of Lipton bags
at the coffee station at work.
I like my tea like I like my men,
loose and free and bursting with flavor,
and preferably not scrapped off the floor
of some faraway factory,
lawnmower leavings and sawdust flakes
dumped into cheap teabags.
I take my tea with
four packets of shame and
two tiny plastic tubs of discomfort,
paper sleeves of Splenda and restaurant-grade creamer,
the only things I can afford to enjoy,
my spoiled taste buds ruined forever.