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