My mind is like a teenager’s dirty bedroom.
Ideas are clothes,
tried on seven times without being worn
or lived in for three consecutive days
then left in filthy bunches on the floor,
forgotten.
Memories line my mind
like posters of a favorite band,
plastered over every inch of wall,
being constantly covered
with something better.
Dreams are love letters
secretly stored in shoe boxes
hidden deep beneath the un-made bed,
dusted off once in a while
just to make sure they’re still there.
My worries are dirty socks
under piles of magazines on the nightstand
or surrounding unfinished homework
scattered across the floor.
They pop up where they are least expected,
and always after you’ve thrown away its mate.
It doesn’t matter how many times
the sweaters are folded,
or the shoe box is pulled out.
It doesn’t matter how many socks
are reunited in landfills.
My mind is constantly cluttered.
and in that chaos
I am the most comfortable.
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