Clean.

The thing is,
My heart is like my bedroom,
Messy and chaotic,
Always filled with stuff,
Too much to see trough,
Heavy loaded with,
Useless items,
Stained clothes,
That are supposed to,
Be in the trash,
Or get cleaned out,
But somehow I always,
Seem to distract myself,
With pleasure,
Only to stop myself,
From cleaning it out,
From emptying,
My heart,
And all the love lost.

Pieces of everyone I met in my life are shattered and puzzled into
a kaleidoscope of memories I can not ever seem to forget.

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