Laundry

I tend not to write poems
About anything but love
Not death
Not happiness
Not confusion, or any other emotions.

The only sure thing I feel
is Love.
The rest is humble,
Mumble Jumble.

A pile of dirty laundry.
Untouched
Unclean
Unorganized, and
No one else’s responsibility
But my own.

Therefore, my intent,
A light-hearted sentiment,
Is to let my dirty laundry define me.
Let the world see my wrinkled T-shirt,
The one I wear to bed but never in public
The jeans that used to fit, but that’s another story for another time-

Why not now? Why not here?

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