#softrebellion
⭐ 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
My coffee sings a morning lie
I greet the room and get no reply
Still, I talk to myself—at least I try
The walls never say hello or goodbye
Maybe the silence is just being shy...
but we usually see eye to eye
Now it’s time for ham and egg pie
The bookshelf waits. Dust comes to stay.
Unread for weeks. This is the way.
My pile of clothes begins to sway—
A soft rebellion, mild decay.
Necklaces lounge in proud display,
Bright lollipop earrings steal the day,
I dress like I’ve outrun dismay.
Otonoke in my ears, pocketed hands
I don’t need a reason. I don’t need a plan
The clouds clap with a flash and a BANG
I walk like I'm lit by streetlamp spite—
just me and the echo of maybe-I-might
One step, two step, three step, four
I giggle in the face of thunderstorms
Rain, rain, please don't abate
Let me linger in this state
Wet socks squish, but they carry their weight
Wish I had nowhere to be, that'd be great
The clouds and I are late for our date
My umbrella dozes – dry, ignored
Drip-dry dreams on the hallway floor
I hang up my coat and set my plea:
Oh woe is not me
I refuse to droop, to wither, to mope
Not all the time, at least, I hope
Let joy arrive on tiptoe
A spark that only I bestow
A tiny smile for what I miss the most
Because what is the opposite of woe?
If not a blink that dares to glow
Wrapped in fleece, the evening mine
Slow sips of golden honey wine
Just me, and this quiet offering
Where everything small becomes everything
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 4:14 PM UTC
i have seen the heaven created in you—
one they could not understand.
and so they named it wrong,
because they could not hold what they feared in their hand.
you were fire, and i the very same.
they said we’d burn the world down—
but all we ever wanted was to be warm.
her touch: psalm.
her gaze: prayer.
and still, they call it sin—
as if holiness can’t wear soft skin and hold my hand.
they could not understand
that when she loves me,
the sky listens more closely
and the stars stay a little longer.
her eyes, gently pulling me in—
her gaze sweeping me beneath her tides
as i pry to the surface
to utter her sacred name.
and even the breath feels borrowed,
as if the universe conspired to see it through.
how can my sin be love?
oh, they would never understand.
Jun 27, 2025
Jun 27, 2025 at 5:40 AM UTC