Beneath My Skin

The boxes on the calendar grid
Twelve months and seven days a week
The columns and rows neatly spread
For everything to be kept in check.

A clean slate- blank, empty and bare
marks the new life of each square.
How each box so long to stay
that same way each and everyday.

If only they could stay that way
like they were many yesterdays.
Alas, it is not to be
for them to remain carefree.

Ink marks soon found their way
more so with each passing day
to the boxes that once were bare
and scarred them beyond repair.

O how heavy the burden to bear
for the load to be stuffed in each square,
to snuff out every empty space
and wipe off every smiling face

where no air is left for breathers
cos' of all the ink that clattered
as fatigue plagues all sensations
at the brink of suffocation.

How I long for yesterday
before the ink marks found their way.
Yet, I know yesterday can't stay
If it could, it won't be yesterday.

There remains One who stay the same
be it yesterday or today.
Wait on that One to renew strength
to climb up again from the depths.

The heft of the filled packed squares
will not be heavy to bear,
for the load's not meant to be
weight for mere humanity.

How I eagerly long to share
the strain of all the filled packed squares
with the One who stays the same
be it yesterday or today.