mother always complained
about the mess we left
in our wake.
strewn all over
the house
bits and pieces
of us.
perfume bottles
on the dressing table
uncapped.
shoes out of place
bringing in dust
from my brother's
previous football game.
scattered clothes
and
unmade beds.
they recieved most
of the backlash.
but then
one day
we visited that house.
the one they
talked about.
t'was spick and span
as mum would
often say.
my eyes roamed
over the empty table
the fluffed cushions
neatly arranged
alternating like bars
of a prison cell
sneaked a glance
into the bedroom
the bed lay
elegantly made,
but looking
almost lifeless.
i thought to myself
how the house
looked like those
arranged in furniture stores
the ones that no one lived in.
and that day
for the first time
in a while
i was at peace
with the mess,
in my mind
YOU ARE READING
f r e e words
Poetryjust what i write when • i'm travelling ° i'm studying • i'm struck with inspiration ° i'm thinking •i'm listening to music °i need a release hope you like reading these as much as i love writing them. lower case intended. Cover by the lovely @g...
