This poem was loosley inspired by the whimsical style of Shel Silverstein, as well as my own messy home; true but exaggerated for the sake of entertainment alone.
There's a sink
Filled to the brim
With dirty dishes that stink
Of rotted soggy food.
There's dog food spilt in the fridge,
And cat puke on the carpet in the hall,
The master bedroom smells of fish,
And that's not nearly all.
Dirty laundry piled high,
Shirts and pants and socks and panties
Go on a mile wide.
Clutter of books and tissue paper and trinkets of all sorts,
Toiletries like hair brushes and dental floss scattered about the house.
Toys we haven't touched in ages from floor to ceiling,
The garage is another story-
Not quite appealing.
A chair from the trash,
And a matching coffee table.
What about this desk or this lamp?
We could use this some day.
When the house is clean-
Ain't that a dream.
Our carpets are stained,
Our wallets are drained,
And we keep leaving because we don't want to be in the house,
Even too disgusting for a mouse.
No one has time or energy or drive
Yet somehow in this disaster is how we thrive.
Chaos makes for an interesting story
My house- my home,
Is anything except ordinary.
The dryer is broke.
Pictures hung with tape-
No frames.
"Not my mess,"
Everyone seems to claim.
Shoes in every corner-
Look at me a self sufficient mourner.
A persona of perfect,
Accidentally awarded to me.
If only-
You all were to see-
The utter disaster
In which I reside.
Really, truly
It wouldn’t hurt my pride.
It would give me some ease,
I could have some room to breathe,
and just be.
It's okay though.
Not every home is hand decorated by Martha Stewart,
Straight out of an Ikea catalog,
Matching and spotless-
Not lived in but for show.
It's okay with me,
Because I know,
I used to be embarrassed,
But now I understand,
My messy house-
Is a part of who I am.
