By: Jacob Rutberg

The white walls make the green paint pop.
Your eyes wander, your nerves stop.
The brick walls are strong and sturdy,
Holding in a writers paradise.

Words from books spill out
Across the rug-covered floors,
As the noises from outside spill in,
Not knowing why or what for.

Near me, like-minded people converge,
Like an avalanche
Of ideas, feeling, and thought
All beating in a rhythm unknown.