Decluttering was  my intention,
It was like a holiday detention,
But! I found such lots of things,
I couldn't part with anything,
Rummage and ye shall find,
More cupboards when I've got the time,
Cleaning house, not such a bore,
When decluttering is your chore........

I shower everyday but
It is not enough
I can not be clean enough.
I need to be cleaner.
Cleaner. Cleaner. Cleaner.
I want to be clean and new
But every rinse leaves me withering
It is drying
My skin leaving me
in cracks and holes
My hair is falling out.
I do not remember the last time
I scrubbed every inch of the filth away.
It clings to me.
It has found shelter in me.
It is a part of me.
I want to be clean.
I want it gone.
I do not remember the last time I was clean.
I do not remember the last time I showered.

l.s.

depression is such a pain
throwing curve ***** of
downfalls in the membrane
my written words has pulled me
from the pits  of the brains pollution
and this I know to be a true fact indeed
"Writing" is the best cleaning  solution

I'm the person who cleans up after
parties -
the kind of person who makes the
host ask
"Who cleaned up?"
and leave the room wondering who the
kind guest was.
Maybe it's because it eases my
troubled mind
when I'm the only one who's awake,
but then
you come down the stairs and I feel
a sudden calm
as you hold me in your arms.

Wet paper towels,
And broken candy canes.
I'm cleaning again.

You asked me if I was okay,
And I continued to throw scraps of paper in the trash.
I'm cleaning again.

Ten minutes ago your eyes danced with mine,
And now I'm wiping away the marker stains.
I'm cleaning again.

I toss my feelings down
But no amount of scrubbing can rub them away.
I'm cleaning again.

You spent the day with me,
And I'm cleaning again.

I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.


So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.

My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.

He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.

A letter
warning of a imminent  
house inspection
makes me sad.
Not because
there is much to do,
just a slight sprucing
up of nooks
and a polish of taps.
It’s because the last time I sought to make everything gleam
you were coming to visit
and the wish for pristine
wasn’t to pass a test;
every second of dusting brought you closer,
scrubbing ticking down to you;
the mundane becoming magnificent.
There was sparkle everywhere
when you arrived.