Unfinished Lines

I sit here in the quiet, holding a pencil,

a stub of yellow, rough against my hand.

The doodles sprawled are wild, chaotic scribbles—

each mistake a stark reminder

of choices made, of paths unmapped.

My new job feels like this paper,

words thrust out, no backspace allowed,

a reminder of scars that won’t erase,

where every little slip stays marked,

a skeleton of thought, a graveyard of ink.