A messy house calls my name
begging to be clean
but I prefer to play with words,
ideas from sources unseen.
I sift through scraps of paper
thrown upon the floor
to find inside hidden gems
ideas from days of yore.
Books I should read written upon
a stranded envelope
or phrase upon phrase of silly thoughts
of various depth and scope.
“How to parallel park your dog”
on a note beside my bed
from the nights where her perpendicular state
won’t let me rest my weary head.
Other ideas I might find
scribbled upon random scraps.
Mysterious words I cannot read
Like the simple phrase “perhaps.”
The more I clean, the more I dig
the more I want to write!
is this truly a creative urge
or the desire to give up the fight?
After all cleaning goes round and round
and never seems complete,
I might uncover the desk one day
but an hour later, admit defeat.
So the secret, I think, I have discovered
to write my wishful tome
is to hide ideas inside the mess
that I currently call my home.