Ink without Eraser

The day’s last light creeps in slow,

a pencil without an eraser, its tip worn low.

It rests on the table, coffee-stained pages,

a weight of unfinished thoughts, trapped in stages.

Lines cross like shadows, thoughts tangled and frayed,

each mark a reminder of choices I made.

No chance to revise, this ink bleeds and stays,

my messy reflections, like the end of days.

I scribble a word, it bleeds on the edge,

hinting at secrets, my own crumbling hedge.

These lines hold my truth, raw, lacking finesse,

the beauty of struggle, in all its distress.