this is not meant to be poetry this is just how the words come out

I wonder if cleaning your room is the best way to spend the last of your time here. 

If it’s better to clear the piles of dirty clothes from the closet floor

To methodically remove the layers of dust from the nightstand

Than it is to sink deep 

Into a poem 

If it is better to worry about what they will find under the bed
(used tissue, unused picture frames)
Than to worry about what they 

Won’t find

In the countless empty journals

(with the covers always too beautiful for your words to defile)

Is it better to empty the overflowing trash bin

Or to pour out a lifetime’s worth of 

Pent up words

Unleash what you spent years

Holding back Behind tight-pressed lips?