I’m a caffeine junkie.

My motto is “anytime, anywhere.”

I like my coffee dark, dark and rich,

but I will cut my losses when I’m desperate.

If it’s burnt, I’ll drink it anyway.

Cold? It still has caffeine, right?

Decaffeinated coffee is a joke.

Before I even taste coffee,

I’ll know whether it’s fake or not.

The bland smell of hot water and fake flavoring

doesn’t hold a feeling of warmth or promise,

the absence of caffeine doesn’t “float my boat.”

Those companies can’t fool me. I’m an expert.

Dried up splotches of coffee are my victims,

Who escape from numerous overfull cups.

They are the few who have survived

and will tell the tale of my reckless consumption.

Their bodies rest on my laptop,

strewn across the slippery keyboard,

slowly, corroding and staining its silver paint.

The scent of the freshly brewed French roast

will forever linger on my clothes,

I never think a second about whether it’ll fade.

It’s my trademark, my perfume for all occasions.

I can’t say that it’s not an addiction because it is.

Everyone knows I can finish off a whole pot.

“This is my morning coffee,” consumed in five minutes flat.

Iced, hot, in Styrofoam, cardboard, or porcelain,

its appearance doesn’t matter much to me.

As long as the caffeine still lingers a while after,

my motto will always be, “anytime, anywhere.”

I’m a caffeine junkie, and I wouldn’t change for the world.