Whenever my room is a mess my mom decides to talk to me,
But all this while when it was seemingly perfect, she never smiled proudly
My room depends on my mood and thus is forever changing rapidly,
But to make matters worse I have to end up cleaning it, and it ends up a catastrophe
Clothes and pillows scattered all over and books littering the floor,
I try to organize them into little piles, but the mess becomes more and more
As the piles becomes smaller, the memories become clearer, as I spot my old trinkets and things,
Slowly the flashbacks start kicking in as the significance of those possessions ring
As I sit on the floor going through my long lost stuff, in the midst of all the mess,
My mom walks in, thinking I've been doing that all along, wasting my time and no less
The worst part is no matter how much you cleaned, your room goes back into it's normal range,
But it's oddly more comforting to stay in a messy room, because it's more you and it'll never change.
~Via
I could try thinking of something deep and meaningful to say about this, but honestly, I've got nothing.
I've been cleaning my room ALL DAY and I'm getting nowhere. Can you relate?
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Better Left Unsaid |✓
PoetryHave you ever felt overwhelmed by the number of sides to a story, the number of words to make up a description or even the number of thoughts needed to execute an idea? Have you ever had the fear of judgement, or been haunted by the thought of speak...
