Moving
My things tumble down inside meas I arduously work to sort, pack, move, unpack
Little things I have no clue how I acquired
what to use for
or how to get rid of
Huge things that have great value
to me
but take too much space
and rarely ever taken out of their box
Things too painful to look at
reminding me of a hatred for something already forgiven
but not yet sorted
Things I supposedly own
that own me
causing dreams of running away
with merely a backpack with my most valuable and needed stuff
Oh how I wish these things would just spontaneously combust!
Poetry by SecretWords
Read 771 times
Written on 2012-06-12 at 18:36
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