A way to describes us would be
Tragic
Relentless
Unrelenting
Restless
A way to describe us would be a set of words formed into a structured mess
Were hoarders
Keeping stacks and stacks of memories
We constantly relive them
It's the only way we can talk to each other
We are hoarders of memories
Of lost photographs
Of forgotten trinkets
We are hoarders of feelings and past hopes

Living in this yellow box filled with aging trinkets
A lonely guy trying to get by just hasn't sealed the link yet
Bout a cup of milk left in the fridge and God forbid I drink it
A shaggy dog; that ***** hog, why can't they smell the stink yet?
The junk comes barreling through the door so fast that you can blink it
There's no more room for gloom and doom, but let's fit one more inkjet
They just got rid of dinnerware,  a silver and a pink set
So now to hoard an ancient sword, a blender and a mink set
Five garbage bags of someone's clothes, the sixth one's in the sink, wet
With lots of cans and pots and pans, we'll reach the jagged brink yet
They're trying to let go, said there ain't no space to think yet
They're workin hard to raise the bar, ain't  worked out all the kinks yet

Pressed for time and low on space
****** I need to get out of this place...

POEM - PAPER FILES-II
 
Clumps of paper around my nest
What can be worse, and what is best?
No one’ll ever think me a genius
They think I’m just a total fanabulistus.

Files and records dwell in our living space
We'll be in a turmoil until most are erased
Much good info is contained here.
Files of many - you have no idea!

The Doomsday Clock now spins toward its close
Around the world one sees many foes
Rumors of war are rumors no more
Papers, files, all over the floor!

Learning new words, many new laws
The most recent gives me much pause
Transhumanism - Do check it on Google
This’ll surely leave your head in a noodle!

People live in my files all day long
I have poets, paupers, authors, Nazis, a full throng
I’ve got murderers, seducers, files of White Magic,
These tales, including emails, reveal much that is tragic.

Scandals abound to be found in my files
Even histories of those known very well
They’ve traveled a long way from us
Surely, now, dwelling in Hell.

Genealogy takes much space in 4-drawer files
The information stretches for miles and miles
Why must I collect dead dust no one sees?
Would that I toss ’em all, just like dead leaves.

Reading does nothing but make me write
Why o why can’t I finish this fight?
I create more as I go along.
Never, never, time for a song.

Writing gets better, but quite like a curse
Everything's quite good, but could get much worse
The Writer's game is not very cozy
Sometimes it appears to be pretty ****** lousy

The hall and bedroom, closets and all
Never see Light -  Spring, Summer + Fall
Boxes, old clothing, day/night sight unseen
Time to get over it, and clean, clean clean!

Carol Rae Bradford-Amended 5:17 a.m.
Sunday, 4:00-4:34 a.m. Nov. 23, 2014