Poem: Too Much to Do

The clock hums loud
like a restless machine,
minutes slipping through
my overfilled hands.

Emails bloom
like weeds in spring,
laundry waits in tired heaps,
and the dishes lean
like a skyline after rain.

Every task
calls my name at once—
small alarms ringing
inside my chest.

I make lists
just to survive the day,
cross one thing out
and three more appear,
hydra-headed and grinning.

Outside,
the world keeps moving calmly—
birds balancing on wires,
clouds with nowhere urgent to be.

I envy them.

Still,
somewhere between the chaos
and the coffee gone cold,
I find one unfinished breath
that belongs only to me.

And for a moment,
the mountain shrinks
into pebbles
I can carry home.

Thank-you for reading.

Brenda Marie