I wander through my house,
aimless steps,
looking at all that I've accumulated
and hating it, every bit.
So much needs to be accomplished,
but it all feels so purposeless.
Wash, sweep, launder, wipe,
what for?
All of this ****,
meaningless to me
and I'm honestly sick of cleaning it.
The same motions over and over,
a metaphor for my life.
I walk room to room,
eyes glancing upon chores undone
yet another day,
but I don't feel like doing them
today either.
I don't want to do any of it,
want nothing to do with
any of this crap.
I meander back to the bedroom,
lie down in bed yet again,
where I never seem to leave
on my days off.
Festering,
this I can do.