An overflowing basket to match an overflowing sink,
reminders of responsibilities like weights,
reestablishing themselves from beyond my bedsheets.
A list stretches upon pages and pages
waiting patiently for checks and arrows
determined fate to be done now or later. I
wonder if the list feels the agony of its own weight
or if it delights in my torture? Maybe it thinks itself
a burden - regretting its own existence as if it were
responsible for creating itself. Maybe I was made,
a conglomerate of tasks to be achieved,
some done and undone, others forgotten beneath
higher priorities. First steps. Check. First words. Check.
Learn to dance. Forgotten. Learn to sing. Undone.
And still there are parts of me that must be rewritten
again and again and again and again - endless.
My mind is an overflowing basket, laundry to be cleaned.
My body is an overflowing sink, dishes to be scrubbed.
Every day over and over, again and again;
If I leave it sit, so too will I until I’ve withered to
oblivion. Endless.