Undone

The list lies long, the margin tight,

Tasks unchecked blur into night.

While clients wait, the bills remain,

Each day a different but familiar strain.

I say it's time, I say “just start,”

All while stress squeezes this tired heart.

The clutter is not just on the floor—

It echoes deeper, at the core.

For every duty I do not face

Reflects an inner, hollow space.

The unfinished becomes a thread

Unraveling the life I’ve led.

Not laziness, nor lack of will,

But something deeper, darker still.

The sense that when I start, I’ll find

A frayed and fractured state of mind.

These undone things are more than mess

They’re signs of silent, raw distress.

They mark the grief I cannot name,

And shame that sets my angst aflame.

So I collect these fractured strands,

The unfinished tasks, the broken plans,

And hope for peace not found in done—

But found in "it is finished," by the One.