Working From Home: A Ridiculous Poem

I could dye my hair teal.

I could take a week off (though I don’t).

I could go somewhere new.

I could sleep until noon.

I feel so different

Though I look just the same.

There’s no outward symbol

Of this liberation, this gorgeous transformation.

Working for myself,

Somehow staying sane,

Isolated but fulfilled.

Lonely yet happy.

My husband says to leave the hair alone.

He told me to try


Wearing hats

Wearing a skirt

Leaving the house, and also

Working at Starbucks and feeling quietly superior to everyone there.

To be fair, that

Last one sounds fun.

I want to put it out there

That I am not much of a hat person.

Entrepreneurship is

Not worn on your sleeve.

And when people ask, and

I say “I’m a writer,”

I am nervous that they think

I’m an “aspiring” writer, or

Lying, or

An unpaid blogger, or

Somehow completely ruining

What I do.

I don’t usually care

What people think of me.

I am confident in myself.

Except I’ve worked

So hard

To build my career, and

Move up and make

Decent money.

The last thing I want

Is for people to now

Assume I am sitting at

Home eating bonbons

While my husband

Brings home the bacon.

I do the grocery shopping

In this house, and I, too,

Bring home bacon.

Though maybe a little less than him.

No, I am not

In an MLM.

I did actually

Start my own business.

I am now confronted

With misconceptions

Of how others view me

And any preconceived notions

They have of those who

Work From Home.

Entrepreneur, writer, editor, book coach, cat lover, weirdo, optimist. Author of “Write. Get Paid. Repeat.” & “Concept to Conclusion.”

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