Clutter, clutter, I start to mutter, as years of clutter I have slowly managed to collect.
Clothes this year won’t fit, kept in hopes of a later shape change, becomes a mantra I cannot shift, no matter how hard I try.
Clutter, clutter holds a memory that is far too strong, to pass onto other unknowing, unfeeling, unsympathetic hands.
Others I hope will be useful one day; I cannot throw them away.
Clutter, clutter reduces my home ’til I am squashed into a tiny place.
Friends and family no longer call; I meet them outside. I hate them reminding me of the elephant in the room.
The shame overwhelms me, yet I just can’t move the load, both physically and mentally, so I wallow in my hollow, ’til someone comes with understanding to assist.
Releasing me into a world I hardly know exists.
2024 © Penny Wobbly of WobblingPen
Photo by Şahin Sezer Dinçer on Unsplash
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