Burdened Threads

The laundry's a mountain, each piece holds a weight,

a quiet reminder of moments I hate.

Socks without partners, shirts wrinkled with care,

clothes whisper the stories I’m trying to bear.

The dryer chimes softly, its rhythm’s a tease,

while I stand in the chaos, on my knees,

face-to-face with the truth, these threads like my fears,

each fold holds a fragment of all my lost years.

The hamper spills over, a tidal wave's edge,

I'm trapped in a cycle, I stand on a ledge.

Nothing goes away until I face the mess,

and here, in this moment, I feel the distress.