The little things I like to keep,
In my drawers full and deep.
‘Junk’ Mom calls it, so ‘junk’ it must be,
But not to me.
For at the heart of all ‘junk’ hides a memory,
A spider too maybe?
Every piece of ‘junk’ means something to me,
Small or big that may be.
In spite of my mess, God loves me too,
And isn’t it true,
that the sign of a genies,
Is a mess?
But don’t worry I say,
I’ll come around one day,
And throw it all away.
But for now, leave my ‘junk’ to me.
We’ll both be the happier, you’ll see.
-Written sometime between age 9 and 13, probably. When I wrote this, I printed it up, attached a magnent, and gave it to my mom. It is still one of the few things on her fridge. Oh, and the spelling mistake "genies" instead of "genius" seems is part of the original poem, so I've decided to leave it there.