I take note of the piles
There are books and pain and anguish
over there against the wall
and towers of paper sadness
spilling out into the hall
My eyes look past the mountains of
clothes and loathing and guilt
and look toward camera droppings
stacked in boxes that I built.
The springed and stuffed table,
with its pillows and memories and shame
is stacked up to the ceiling
with things I cannot name.
My treasures lie amongst the mess
and sometimes I can glance
the kind of person I could be
if I but take the chance.
I seize a sack, in hand and mind,
and--Seeing that I can
release the obligation--
change "I Was," to who I Am.
As the hours tick by slowly
I clear the dross and broken dreams
and also trinkets, and I realize
that my space is--finally--clean.