Words Unwritten
by Ruben M.
· 19/12/2025
Published 19/12/2025 18:14
A pencil rests idle, no eraser in sight,
a relic of promises, half-formed and slight.
My thoughts dance on paper, a waltz out of tune,
no room for correction, just shadows and gloom.
Every word a misstep, an echo of doubt,
as I linger on pages where silence shouts out.
The tip of my pencil, a frayed little stub,
uncorrected, unyielding, like life in a hub.