Minor Infractions
Let’s get grounded, be human. Forget romance. Forget grand gestures. This week, we’re tuning into a different frequency and avoiding the trap of making self-reflection feel like a punishment. Let’s focus on the low vibrational hum of our own small, silly, and slightly shameful moments.
A poem talking about the times you were not your best self. Not in a tragic, life-ruining way, but in that quiet, human way we all experience.
Think of it as a poetic inventory of your minor infractions. The goal isn’t to wallow in guilt, but to observe with honesty and a touch of humor. Can you capture the truth of a small wrongdoing in a poem?
Write a poem about a time you fell short. Keep it simple. Keep it true. Keep it real.
Did you steal a pen? Eat the last cookie? Did you ever hold a grudge against someone for something they did in a dream you had about them? The injustice feels so real. Did you call in sick to work when you were perfectly healthy? Tell us about that glorious, guilt-ridden day of freedom.
The challenge isn’t just to confess, but to find the precise, honest detail. Don’t tell us you felt guilty. Show us the pen sitting in your pencil case, a different color from all the others. Show us the empty plate with a single crumb, the silence where a reply should be.
This isn’t a court of law. It’s a playground for the conscience. Make it fun, make it silly, but most of all, make it true.
Please remember there are no deadlines here, no expectations, no need to rush, no need to fret, if it does not fit your mood, don’t try to force it. There is no pressure to perform. If you scribble it on a notecard and forget to come back, that is perfectly fine too. This space is just a place for a moment of rest.
I hope your writing goes well and you find a spark of creativity. Have a wonderful week. Many Blessings.
When the house surrendered to sleep
and even the clock softened its breath,
I entered the kitchen
as though trespassing on sacred ground.
There, beneath the small and merciless light,
rested my son’s unopened snack.
It bore no inscription of ownership,
yet its allegiance was clear.
I stood in deliberation.
Hunger spoke first.
The wrapper answered.
Its quiet crackle
sounded louder than confession.
I ate.
I buried the evidence
with the fragile hope
that time would conspire with me.
But morning is an honest witness.
“Dad, where is it?”
In that question
fell the full weight of my authority.
I confessed.
I promised restitution.
I swore renewal.
And learned:
A father’s dignity
can collapse
over something
no larger than a handful of crumbs.