You always know when a room needs cleaning
When you sit up in bed while slowly dreaming
And you say those words
Those awful words
"I should really. clean. up."
From clothes to papers
Trash and toys
To all you girls and (lets be honest) mostly boys
That frightful moment when all stands still
Where your room goes under the surgeons knife…
And for me
Its easy
But very odd to explain
Am I the only one who can't ever decide
If I 'll ever need this tiny thing again?
From the trinkets to the binders
From trivial to the important
It is simply impossible for me to decide
What to keep or throw away
But!
Don't call me a hoarder
I much prefer the title planner
For what I keep may possibly be used again
In the end I shove it all away
In the drawers and behind closet doors
Gathering dust
And turning to rust
Waiting to be used again.