So many times I start, only to stop each time
procrastinate, in part, a gesticulating mime
I rant and rave and stutter, it's the cleaning I condemn
rearranging all the clutter, examining flawed gems
The corners of my mind, the cobwebs and debris
floors of dirt and grime, I could clean them, easily
But each and every sweep, of the broom or mop
creating heaps of memories, begging me to stop
I guess it's the release, my mind just won't let go
not granting any peace, maintaining status quo
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 9:21 AM UTC
So many times I start, only to stop each time
procrastinate, in part, a gesticulating mime
I rant and rave and stutter, it's the cleaning I condemn
rearranging all the clutter, examining flawed gems
The corners of my mind, the cobwebs and debris
floors of dirt and grime, I could clean them, easily
But each and every sweep, of the broom or mop
creating heaps of memories, begging me to stop
I guess it's the release, my mind just won't let go
not granting any peace, maintaining status quo
They never go away, they simply bury themselves in dark corners, waiting for the broom, so you have to look at them again.
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