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#poeticdistraction
I woke up before the noise, breathed with the trees, walked with the sky. The sun hadn't yawned yet, but I had — twice. Back home, I made coffee strong enough to slap me awake. I whispered to my cup, "Let's be productive today." It didn’t answer — but I believed in us. I sat down with math— chapter four, page full of promises. I underlined the heading, adjusted my pen cap five times, then sharpened a pencil I didn’t even need. Pro-level procrastination unlocked. Midway through one sad-looking equation, my phone lit up— first a comment, then a reel, then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats. Fifteen minutes later, I knew three dessert recipes and forgot the formula I never really knew. Suddenly, a line hit me— not from the textbook, but from somewhere softer. A poem idea. Just a line, I thought. A quick jot. A harmless verse. But the line grew limbs, called in stanzas, and started demanding metaphors. So I gave in. I gave it my quiet, my hours, my last sip of cold coffee. A crow watched me from the window grill like it knew I was failing both maths and time. And now— the sun is long gone, the sky has tucked itself in. The poem is finished, polished and breathing. But that chapter? Still untouched. Still waiting.
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Aug 16, 2025
Aug 16, 2025 at 12:58 PM UTC
Adora_Sunshine2004
A Morning's Undoing
I woke up before the noise, breathed with the trees, walked with the sky. The sun hadn't yawned yet, but I had — twice. Back home, I made coffee strong enough to slap me awake. I whispered to my cup, "Let's be productive today." It didn’t answer — but I believed in us. I sat down with math— chapter four, page full of promises. I underlined the heading, adjusted my pen cap five times, then sharpened a pencil I didn’t even need. Pro-level procrastination unlocked. Midway through one sad-looking equation, my phone lit up— first a comment, then a reel, then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats. Fifteen minutes later, I knew three dessert recipes and forgot the formula I never really knew. Suddenly, a line hit me— not from the textbook, but from somewhere softer. A poem idea. Just a line, I thought. A quick jot. A harmless verse. But the line grew limbs, called in stanzas, and started demanding metaphors. So I gave in. I gave it my quiet, my hours, my last sip of cold coffee. A crow watched me from the window grill like it knew I was failing both maths and time. And now— the sun is long gone, the sky has tucked itself in. The poem is finished, polished and breathing. But that chapter? Still untouched. Still waiting.
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