Stuff

Stuff

Not really hidden, available

for all who wish to see,

the things I need the least,

confronting me, taunting, 

still visible, 

even locked behind wood.

The poems never shown,

tucked away for some future edit,

the painted and penciled pictures,

not suitable for public display.

(or comment)

I must have thought I’d 

return to them someday,

but age flattens a man,

life shifts his priorities.

How things were,

even how they will be,

do not matter.

(nope)

There’s only how 

things are now.

Mostly I write and paint

to find out

what I’m thinking,

to check my mood,

(the current one)

to tell the truth,

(always)

which does indeed set me free,

but not until it sometimes

pisses me off.

I have a storage unit,

(costs a bundle)

monthly bills higher than 

the value of the stuff inside,

including that cedar chest

which holds all the scribblings,

the dabblings.

Who’s to judge, really?

(not me)

Someone besides me will 

throw all my stuff away,

(someday)

perhaps a semi-star of 

some sort of reality tv show.

They’ll open that chest,

maybe think about the contents,

or maybe they’ll just

bitch and groan, wonder why 

anyone would keep such junk.

One man’s treasure...

(oh, you know)