#newwork
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem IV
The spoon gave up first.
Not the coffee,
not the light,
not even the fridge
with its night‑shift sighs –
the spoon.
It lay in the mug
like a cold, silver protest,
refusing to stir anything
that even resembled effort.
I nudged it.
It didn’t move.
I nudged it again.
It responded with the quiet authority
of someone who has already drafted
their resignation letter.
Apparently,
it was tired of being the only thing
expected to stay polished
in a kitchen full of quitters.
The coffee had abandoned
its rescue business yesterday.
The light still squinted
like it hadn’t slept.
The silence –
the same one that’s been gathering
its own dust and hair since last night –
sat between us,
unhelpful as ever.
And I –
well, I wasn’t exactly
a motivational poster either.
So the spoon decided
it was done performing.
Done swirling hope into mornings.
Done pretending to be helpful.
It leaned against the mug’s rim,
trembling slightly –
not from effort,
but from the relief
of finally choosing itself.
And honestly,
I couldn’t blame it.
Some days,
even the silverware
has better boundaries
than I do.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 2:39 PM UTC
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem I
(A small morning rebellion, starring a mug that refuses to help.)
The coffee didn’t even try.
It sat in the mug, dark and stubborn,
informing me through a thin veil of steam
that it was done with the rescue business.
Apparently, I am on my own.
The steam rose in a slow,
disappointed shrug –
the kind you give a friend
who never learns.
Light leaned into the kitchen sideways,
squinting,
looking like it had slept fitfully
and wasn’t ready for a conversation.
The fridge hummed with the heavy,
oxygen‑starved solidarity
of a night‑shift worker
who just wants to clock out.
The spoon was useless.
It lay on the counter,
feigning a deep, silver sleep
to avoid being involved.
There was no grand epiphany.
No metaphor waiting in the shadows
to make this meaningful.
Just a room,
a cold caffeine resignation,
and the quiet realization
that the day isn’t a performance –
it’s simply a space
where I have to learn
how to stand
without being held up.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC
⭐ THE POLISHED SELF™ (Part I)
(Because even authenticity needs a little editing.)
Every morning,
The Polished Self™
wakes before I do.
It stretches,
straightens its metaphorical collar,
and asks me
if I’m ready to be seen.
I tell it
I haven’t had coffee yet.
It tells me
visibility waits for no one.
Together we review
the daily rituals:
curate,
crop,
soften the shadows,
brighten the eyes,
remove the parts
that don’t photograph well –
which is to say,
most of me.
The Polished Self
is patient,
in the way a mirror is patient:
it reflects
without forgiving.
It reminds me
that authenticity
is a performance too,
just with better lighting.
Sometimes I ask
if we could take a day off –
be unpresentable,
unoptimized,
unseen.
It smiles
with the kind of pity
reserved for amateurs.
“People don’t want the truth,”
it says.
“They want the version of you
that looks like the truth
but doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”
And I nod,
because I’ve learned
that arguing with a reflection
only makes the glass smudge.
Still,
there are evenings
when I catch myself
in a window
after dark –
unfiltered,
unarranged,
unpolished –
and I think:
this person,
this quiet, unlit version,
might be worth showing too.
But morning comes,
and The Polished Self™
is already awake,
already shining,
already asking:
“Are you ready
to be believed today?”
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 8:46 AM UTC
(A poem about love that no longer asks – only remains.)
I don’t expect your love.
Expectation is a door
I’ve stopped checking.
But what I feel
remains available,
not as a plea,
but as a place –
a room I no longer wait in,
yet still keep warm.
There was a time
when affection meant
leaning forward,
hoping for symmetry.
Now it means
standing upright,
letting the world
tilt as it must.
Love, for me,
is no longer a transaction.
No ledger,
no return on investment,
no quiet hunger
for mirrored emotion.
It’s simply presence –
steady,
unforced,
unpolished in the best way.
A resource,
not a request.
If you ever need it,
you’ll find it intact.
But I won’t hold the door,
won’t wait in the hallway,
won’t measure myself
against your absence.
I’ve learned to live
in rooms with windows,
not thresholds.
And still –
the warmth remains.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 5:10 AM UTC