The bus clanks and shudders along the broken roads;
My pencil jerks from my hand,
And the broken roads are mirrored in line breaking
My page with its marred stroke.
My eraser jumps across the page as I erase
That dark, black, jagged line.
Erasing the past is a lot like that; It's like erasing
Something while clunking along
In a bus. It takes a lot of effort, and the mark will
Still remain. A memory, since we
Can't ever fully forget past mistakes, even if we try.
Nobody else completely forgets, either.
People are like that line. Everyone impacts us in some
Little way. Like a smile, tied tightly with
A pencil that flew across a clanking, shuddering bus.
Mistakes and fate tied tightly together.
Because even mistakes can have an effect for good.