Books and clothes
dance, tangle, twist
awkwardly, lovingly
around my room.
I should clean
"Should."
Won't.
Because all I can do lately
is sit and stare,
wondering how disorganization
is so massively annoying
yet indescribably calming.
Hugo,
Melvin,
Tolkien, Lewis,
Vonnegut, Steinbeck,
Faulkner,
Hawthorne;
my darling men
seek repose
in shelves of mahogany,
atop jeans, ratty shirts,
and the like.
I don't think I will clean my room,
no, not today;
the mess is my doom,
but it keeps the monsters away.
YOU ARE READING
Words for a Friend
PoetryYou wanted me to write you poems about anything; I wanted something to inspire me again. A random assortment of personal, serious poems and random blathering. (cover photo not mine) Completed.
