Clutter,
A room of clutter is how my parents see it.
I see a safe haven.
The books are old,
Some falling apart,
But from love and not bad practice of book care.
There's posters of old shows and pretty friends,
Photos hanging with lights making it possible
To see the old ones.
Why is there a giant wooden mushroom in here?
Or a dress more full than any other?
String of all colors dangle everywhere,
Holding dried roses, dahlias,
Tying everything together.
The lemon dresses are wrinkled,
The warm oversized jumps are heavy,
And the blankets are crumpled on the futon.
It's cluttered.
It's home.
YOU ARE READING
Poems That I Form
PoetryI write poems that are me, Or rather what is in my head. It may be prose, Ponders, Sadness and grief; But who expected happy poetry anyways? If you wish not to see a crying girl, Then you're reading the wrong book. If you wish not to see the terror...
