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I think it's time to write, this poem I'll recite, that one who has an inclination to,
Be reading what is written. And as it is read sitting, and pondering this thought under the moon.
How is it that a man, who is grown and stands, at least 5 feet 11 inches tall,
Can be the cause of such, disorganized clutter, that indeed spans this home from wall to wall.
His uncanny ability to fill in each and every inch you see, of space available to those within,
With things all of his own? Indeed it is unknown, if all his stuff would fill a garbage bin.
Perhaps one day I'll see, and test this my theory, that indeed all of his things may fit,
Into a large container, holding refuse in nature. Perhaps this is considered cause to spit.
And to attempt to remove, those things that cause much reprove, and indeed to dispose of all his goo.
Yes indeed you see his clutter, it causes me to sputter. Haults doing those things which I need to do.
You see as one developes a comfort zone of sorts, the things of one begin to merge with others,
Untill all things in life, become something of strife. As can be true in any group endeavor.
So there comes a time when one must put aside all those things that have become too heavy.
So something can be done about the needs of one. And so indeed the garbage rule I levy.
The garbage of emotion becomes a magic potion, tending to stall indeed human progression.
To this add garbage of physical. Yes this becomes quite quizzical, that one somehow could learn this lesson.
It is truly possible and indeed quite plausible, that emotion spills and needs a garbage session!
© 2013 Kari Shinal