I need to clean the clutter that has taken over my house.
Hoarding this mess makes no sense, but I don’t know how to clear it out.
This disaster was formed through decades of war and I’ve come to collect the wreckage.
On the floor lies all my flaws. I sweep them into piles, but there’s too many,
they frequently fall. On the walls hang framed failures. I’ve taken them down
but my house feels bare without them. I stack my mistakes on tables,
criticisms cover the counters. There’s no room to walk.
I have accomplishments, too. Successes and kind compliments, I swear I do.
I try to seek them out. It’s impossible to find any of the good in this house!
It all gets buried beneath the rest until I’ve forgotten them altogether.
This war is civil, but it’s anything but cordial. This house is no safe space.
I cannot sleep in the firing line so I rest with one eye open.
The rubble keeps building and I’m afraid to wake one day and find
that my house has fallen in on me and I’m trapped inside my mind.