I Should've Cleaned My Room

A piece of poetry. I know, the meters aren't perfect. But I'm going to come out and say that I don't care how unprofessional it is, I'm not seeking critique with this work. I just want to share it. So I really don't care if it's not perfect.

I Should've Cleaned My Room

There's a half-eaten peach ring on my floor.
I don't know how it got there
I don't know what it's doing there
Just a half-eaten peach ring, nothing more.

My drawers are disorganized and chaotic
If you stare at my room
For a long enough time
I'm not kidding, it gets downright hypnotic

There's a pile of books, in the corner there
Just chilling there, all cool
Pages stirred by the fan
An author's stereotypical, writerly flair

My sister used to stay in this place
We shared a room
I kept my side messy
But she dealt with it with considerable grace

But every once in awhile, she'd ask
If I could clean up
My side of the room
(I thought it too formidable a task)

It was simple: I was sloppy, she was not
Two opposites, and she
Learned to tolerate
My messiness, and all that rot

I knew it bothered her tremendously
The way my room was never
Organized or cleanly
The way I trashed it, horrendously

Looking back, I often ask myself why:
Why didn't I stop to
To hang up that dress, or
Organize a drawer? I had the time!

And she's in a scratchy hospital bed
Eyes half-closed
So far from home
I ask myself what problems I've fed

I should've taken the time for you
I should've hugged you more
It kills me to remember
The least I could've done was clean my room.

The End

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