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a poverty no one names

There’s a poverty no one names— when we refuse to spend the grief we owe.

When we hide from what aches, we bankrupt the heart’s capacity to hold.

Let the ledger carry pain. Let the soul be overspent. Only then can it be rich again.

Emotional Ledger

There’s a poverty no one names— not in coin, not in bread, but in withheld grief.

We learn to budget our feelings, spend nothing that might break us.

But the soul needs a balance— a ledger marked with ache and awe.

To feel is to spend. To grieve is to grow.

I overspent this week—on silence, on memory, on hope. And I regret nothing.

Because an empty heart is not the one that suffered— it’s the one that refused to.

Lounge Legacy

—A Poetic Rite of Feeling

Sit with it. Don’t rush toward forgetting.

Let sorrow settle where it chooses—

even in the marrow, even in the joy.

You are not broken. You are young, and that ache?

It’s proof you’ve lived beyond the surface.

You loved. Perhaps more deeply than you thought yourself able.

And now you know what the heart sounds like

when it loses and still insists on singing.

I won’t tell you to move on. I’ll tell you to remember.

To hold the warmth and the wound in the same breath—

because one taught you the shape of the other.

There’s a poverty no one names—

the kind that hides beneath composure.

When we refuse to spend the grief we owe,

we bankrupt the heart’s capacity to hold.

You must not live as though your sorrow is an embarrassment.

Let the ledger carry pain. Let the soul be overspent. Only then can it be rich again.

People spend their lives avoiding this very thing.

And here you are, with sorrow like sunlight—

unwanted, unrelenting, but illuminating nonetheless.

If nothing else, let this be your rite: To feel fully.

To not protect every piece of yourself from being rearranged.

Because one day, someone will sit where you are now,

and you’ll remember this couch, this stillness,

this ache— and how it didn’t destroy you.

It carved you open so you could hold more than just yourself.

                           Afterword – Grief as Inheritance

                   There are things we pass down quietly— not heirlooms of gold or silver,

                   but soft wisdoms learned in shadow.

                   To feel is a legacy. May yours be worn, generous, and fully spent.

                       Notes on the Ledger

This suite was born of a need to honour ache—

to give it shape and voice, rather than exile.

Grief, here, is not portrayed as deficit,

but as a form of spiritual expenditure:

every sorrow spent becomes a line

on the soul’s ledger, a transaction toward growth.

The recurring metaphor of grief-as-currency

serves to reframe emotional vulnerability as a form of wealth—

a richness earned through feeling, not avoided through silence.

These verses unfold like financial statements of the heart:

budgeted, withheld, overspent, and reconciled.

The resonance with Peter Trofimov from

The Cherry Orchard is deliberate.

Like Trofimov, whose philosophical idealism masks buried sorrow—

particularly the loss of young Grisha—

these poems trace what happens when pain is redirected, repurposed,

and ultimately tendered as emotional capital.

He is, after all, Chekhov’s eternal student:

not merely of politics or progress,

but of suffering transmuted into moral urgency.

Each poem is a page torn from the internal book of becoming—fully spent, tenderly kept.

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