Smudged words I can hardly remember I wrote,
scribbles telling a story of impatience
while I was on the phone.
Another day running errands that aren’t mine,
all in the name of peace of mind.
Phone numbers in the bottom corner of the page,
no written names, no written dates;
only a list of errands without an end,
another loose thread I’m expected to mend.
The voice inside me screams for help,
but only an echo is heard.
Reaching no one, it goes unheard;
getting nowhere, no matter how loudly it’s stirred.
And it’s like a series with a thousand episodes,
the plot only thickens, the burden grows.
Questions pile up, answers dissolve.
Nothing moves forward, nothing resolves.
The smudged words appear again, page after page,
a clear sign my tears tore through them.
I tried keeping them inside,
but they found their way out,
wetting the pages I intended to keep dry.
And still I write.
New smudges bloom where old ones remain,
each stain a witness to sorrow and strain.
The pages grow heavy, the black ink runs thin,
yet every line holds the weight within.
Perhaps one day I’ll read these words anew
and remember the storms I somehow made it through.
The errands will end, the echoes will fade,
and the tears that marked these pages
will become proof that I stayed.