Planner pages

My overpriced Staples planner
doesn't have a millimeter of space
adorning any one of its pages,
I swear. Each line is written in some
sort of miscroscopic font to fit
each clumsy letter, it's like
hieroglyphics. Coffee and cocoa
drizzle the edges, which curl
inwards, dissolving into themselves.

Words jam-pack every page.
They push and shove and bicker
with one another, fighting for more
space, because there's not enough
room to spread their wings
and soar from the 14-dollar prison.

Yet today's dank cell calls
for a double-take. Three months ago,
I skipped ahead, flipped through
the meaningless gray crumples
and I wrote, ahem: Let go.
Let go. Let go. The words beat
through my mind like a drum,
on repeat, repeat, repeat.
Let go, let go, let go.

And that's why today,
my fingers curl around themselves,
groping for the hexagonal, faceted
familiarity of Pencil, but only meeting
flesh on flesh and forming
an empty fist.

And that's why today,
I somehow summon the will power
to let this cell stay blank of the
riddled, hasty annotations. Words
are beautiful things, but sometimes
I end up twisting them into a chokehold
without knowing it.

Three months ago, I wrote, Let go.
And I'll try to, okay? I'll try harder than ever,
being the hyrogliphic-to-do-lists
kid that I am. I think I'm a fighter,
so I'll try. It will be hard, though.
In my overpriced Staples planner,
It will be hard.
I'll keep trying.