Aliens from outer space,
Annoyingly hovering above,
Invade my trash most Sunday nights.

They're after the recyclables
--cans, paper, plastic,
Whatever they can get their
Spindly grubby hands on.

Whether they plan to use
The stuff to build a doomsday weapon,
Piece of nifty gym equipment,
Or some fancy headdress,
Who's to say?

I just wish
The little buggers would clean up their mess,
Instead of leaving it
For me on Monday morning.

Trash man came by today,
Same time he comes every day and
He asked for all my trash.
He didn’t care if it was in a bag so I
Gave him all my anxiety
That’s living inside of me.
My depression, all my fears, and my insecurity.

Trash man, trash man,
I’ll never understand how
He can tip his hat and smile
And say “I’ll see you in a while.”
He never once complains or
Mentions the weight of my pain.
Wind, hail, snow, or rain,
Tomorrow he’ll be back again.

Well I love you trash man,
Make your rounds in a flash.
I can’t help but wonder, though,
Who takes the trash man’s trash?

I let it build up too long again.
The bin is overflowing with stinky garbage and now a simple chore has become a huge ordeal.
If I could regularly dispose of all the toxic negative thoughts accumulated in my brain it would be a relatively easy process.
But I procrastinate until all the insecurities, fears, and anger become too heavy to lift
So I drag the ******* bag behind me as it leaves a trail of stinky slime in it's wake.
I get rotten trash juice all over my hands as I dump all my emotions onto paper.
When it's all taken out and empty and I am exhausted
I put in a new liner and let the trash begin piling up again.