Junk: Indifference or Clutter??
Why is there junk in my world so perfect?
Why do I feel like it’s enjoying me?
Why do I let it pile up and infect,
Then let it pry and steal while destroying me.
Junk, the remains of something broken
Or old articles considered to be useless
Like a hoarder, this junk is where I store things
Things with inert value, with no uses
A pathological dysfunction, this junk,
Cluttering in the pavements of my mind
The depths of emptiness, where I’ve sunk,
sputtering alongside a vacant shrine.
Like a deadly poison, this junk is indifferent,
It cares not that it causes my suffering
It does not feel benign or malignant,
It bears no womb to pause for my comforting.
This junk is my indifference, my apathy,
Unfeeling and ruthless, in echoes of cold.
Never stirring, never crying in agony,
This junk is concealing, with languor it controls.
Why does my junk pile up, am I lazy?
I don’t know, but I stack it near these scars,
These open wounds where it slowly breaks me,
In a corner, throwing darts, killing stars—
Razing wishes, as my habitual bane,
Her face the malediction and the charm
She reappears and I cannot abstain
the lust for her that I’ve failed to disarm
Memories muddle and cause me distress,
Depression soon follows my failure of love
Expressions in slates of blankness address
The concessions Im trying to get rid of.
Like dead weight on shoulders the burden I feel,
Too much in the attic, too much to conceal
It’s eating my space with indifference it steals
A war junk has started the panic is real.
I wager a smile, a frown upside down,
In hopes indifference just won’t come around
My junk at its max, I fear it shuts down,
My brain overwhelmed, the walls breaking down.