Look at my life.
Look at the mess,
I am in.
Like a dirty room, my mess.
Yes, it is, a mess, but does that mean I like it less?
Without a mess,
How could I clean, to discover the path to the door, and find dusty old memories that hid under my bed?
Who knew, that just by taking a broom to the floor, that this is where I would be led?
I find trash, yes, but no one is perfect.
But instead of lingering on that empty soda bottle,
Why can't we all put it in the trash can?
I admit, my room is rather crammed.
Filled with my experiences, ideas, and theories.
But I wouldn't like it any other way.
At the end of the day, I find my bed.
So I have someplace to lay,
And close my eyes, to rest.
I am starting to like my mess.
A room too clean screams to be dirtied up.
So I'll leave the laundry.
I'll leave the half full tea cup.
So tomorrow, I have something to pick up.
And tonight I get to rest, in my bed, surrounded by my bit of mess,
So I can sleep tonight.
By my life.