Cleaned

The glory of a thousand thoughts-
It used to spread, dissect
Its mistakes, its secrets alone.

Shadows became friends, neighbors,
Trading meager light, little life
warmer and warmer.

Plain as day, they seduced the flames
Now hungry, truly pulled out, (up, about)
Truly shrunken away-
A pounce from an empty post.

My Room

Teeming, spilling in opportunity;
The air old with apathy,
New with defeat and challenge
In its complacent maze.

Uneasy upon the gaze
To the keeper of the labyrinth
And lost souls alike,
All searching for new ways out.

Keys should be aplenty, no doubt
Going up and down
Endless clues and new time:
In and out, then back again.


Not that I mind. Perhaps it could be called character development, as most of the mess is currently comprised of old drafts and unpublished poems? It's not like I can throw most of it away...I think. I think I'll start a separate folder for old drafts, before I lose something valuable.

Apparently, I still have many written drafts that I had deemed to be lost. Thank goodness for my past organizational platform. It's still working for me, even if my room does look like Staples threw up all over it.