#quietabsurdity
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem V
The weather didn’t help.
Not with mood,
not with meaning,
not with anything, really.
The rain arrived first –
not dramatic,
not cleansing,
not trying to set a scene,
just wet.
It slid down the window
like someone too tired
to knock.
The wind followed,
shoving a recycling bin
into the street
with the bored persistence
of a cashier on hour nine.
The sun tried once,
leaning through the clouds
with a weak, apologetic glow,
then gave up
and went back to wherever
it keeps its better days.
Nothing outside
matched anything inside.
No metaphors,
no parallels,
no poetic weather report
to explain the morning.
Just a sky
that refused to participate,
a sidewalk
that didn’t care who stepped on it,
and a day
that wasn’t setting any mood
for anyone.
Which, honestly,
felt about right.
May 20
May 20, 2026 at 4:19 PM UTC
⭐ 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