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.