I Wrote This Instead of Screaming

I spread my life across the table,  
maps I never understood.  
The paper hums with silent echoes,  
coastlines fading where I stood.  
The rivers never flowed quite right,  
the towns I cherished disappeared,
just pressure-point fossils  
of the world I once steered.  

And I don’t know when the ink ran dry,  
but I’ve been tracing ghosts all my life.  

I’ve got the blueprint, but the house is a lie,  
a list of the places, none of the whys.  
The past won’t load, it just declines,  
I’m left with grid lines.  
I know I’m here in square E-4,  
but I forget what D-3’s for.  
I press my hand to every sign,  
just the grid lines.  

Coffee rings and ink stains bleeding,  
ghosts of what I planned.  
The legend’s cracked along the bottom,  
with names I used to understand.  
I once knew where each road led,  
but they vanish in the fold, 
still chasing routes that flicker  
through the creases growing old.  

And every path I try to find  
just loops me back inside my mind.  

I’ve got the blueprint, but the house is a lie,  
none of the faces, none of the times.  
The past won’t load, it just declines,  
I’m left with grid lines.  
I know I’m here in square E-4,  
but I forget what D-3’s for.  
I run my fingers, reading blind, 
just the grid lines.  

Maybe I ran out of color,  
maybe time ran out of ink.  
The compass spins in quiet circles,  
and the edges start to shrink.  
If there’s a map inside my chest,  
it’s folded past repair.  
Still, I keep unfolding it, 
just to prove it’s there.  

I’ve got the blueprint, but the house is a lie,  
none of the stories, none of the lines.  
The memory fades, the heart resigns. 
I’m left with grid lines.  
I know I’m standing here - E-4,  
but the shore’s not here anymore.  
I breathe, I trace, I realign, 
my life in grid lines.  

Just the grid lines.  
Just a ghost of design.  
I’m trying to read between the lines,
but it’s only grid lines.