Gridlock, Or, Unfinished Business

A stack of magazines,

dusty, ignored,

and there it was, a puzzle

I'd once adored.

Or tried to.

Faded pencil marks,

a few shaky guesses,

some of them clearly wrong,

adding to my stresses.

Across: "Eight-letter word for 'regret'."

I'd put 'sorrowful.'

Smudged it out. A grey stain,

a mark I couldn't pull

away from the page.

Down: "Five letters, 'letting go'."

Blank. Still blank. A silent stage,

where nothing new would grow.

All those white squares,

staring back. A stark

accusation. My own affairs,

another half-made mark.

I just gave up.

The grid, a cage, no escape route,

no sudden insight, no clever cup

of answers, just the doubt.