Clutter

The what ifs and regrets we all have, at one point, could not stop thinking about.

 

Let the cob webs clutter up my mind

Create a dusty attic

Of the room still alive

Inside boxes

Behind closed curtains

Place the cassette tapes

Of songs needing to be forgotten

Lay the pictures lay them low

In crates in the corners

The REM cycles you know

All too well

This repeated tradition

Of retreating back to this place known

Before its prohibition

Empty bottles, a decreased control

The chicken soup for this little soul

You could light one in this attic,

Turning everything into ashes

But too careful you are

With the light in one hand

With the devil and angel demanding that you,

Toss the match and breathe in the fumes

Let die, this attic you uphold, you already prevented

The Molotov cocktail you could have thrown.

Upon the shoulders

Of the man they keep,

Suggesting lighter fluid

Its much more clean.

You already admitted defeat

The Alamo has way past been breached.

In this attic with now a cig in one hand

Burning smoothly than ever before

And at that too careful once more

You shut the door in the same fashion, unlocked again

Are you surprised by her reaction.

Reviews

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

Poised and elegant, a well versed piece, well done, good read.

[quinfinn]

i like this. i really enjoy metaphorical writing, particularly in the form of prose. congrats on a well written imagery of the mazes of one's mind.