Crowded Days

The kitchen calendar, a frantic map.

Tiny squares, choked with black ink.

Appointments, deadlines, a time-trap,

no room left to even stop and think.

Crossed-out lines, like small defeats.

New notes scrawled over old, a frantic mess.

Every day a ledger, every moment eats

at the margins, leaving nothing less

than a suffocating feeling, a heavy press.

So much to do, so little space to breathe.

Just a frantic, visible stress.

What do you do with all this to achieve?