Burdens on Shoulders.

He took out his stationary and made to write the letter,
A sad little thing full of apologies and self rebuke,
But none of it would come forth out of the tip of his pen,
And he loomed over his desk with no thought to pronounce,
That is when he packed it all a way,
For another sad, bottom rung day.

As the next one came upon him, he sat himself down,
Everything was before him, and he wanted to get it out,
The tool, gripped between thumb and forefinger would not react,
His hand was motionless, and his tears were void,
The sad little principles that he wanted to spill,
Were all blocked up, and made safe in his head.

Years passed, and he thought perhaps now,
Now, he could relieve the tension between his regret and his hope,
A layer of dust blanketed his kit, and with his palm he wiped it clean,
He took out his pen, and he took out his paper, and he set himself before it.
He stared for a quarter of an hour, fumbling on where to begin,
With the name, or "i'm sorry" or "how can I put this",
And when he settled on what would begin it, he broke down into sobs.

To get control of his emotions, he removed himself from his post,
Not abandoning it, just letting it rest a moment,
So that the letter would be clear and precise,
Not a trashed mess of emotion and self-inflicted gunshot wounds,
And when he returned to it, the first thing he wrote was,
"To whom it may concern...." and as the pen met the paper,
It never was far from it for another half an hour.

With three pages down, and his wrist growing sore,
He finished up his last thought, and wiped a fleeing tear from his cheek,
The sunlight made the dust particles sparkle about him,
It's ray landing just before him, and upon the words,
And what he spoke through his utensil was beautiful and right,
He scanned it once more to make sure it was all their.

As he strolled to his mailbox after sealing and stamping his envelope,
He placed it inside, and raised the flag, and placed his hand upon the box,
His heart was heavy and his mind was fractured, the worries of the world were light,
The places he was at within his psyche were inside that sealed envelope,
And he could feel free, and see into the future clearly, and that was good.

So he dropped the flag upon that box, and removed his letter,
It was light now, pieces of paper inside a piece of paper,
With chicken scratch on both,
It surely was not the heavy burden it was once before,
And as a heavy breeze blew on him, he shredded it into tiny pieces,
And let it dance away, never to be needed again.