The Perspective From the Landfill

I have these piles of trash in my bedroom.

There are crinkled food-wrappers on the floor,

There are old tags and used tissues on the dresser,

And sweatshirts.

There are oh, so many sweatshirts.

Most of the time, though, I just walk around it.
I pretend they aren't there.
I don't see them.

It's funny, because all of my friends say to me:

"Oh, yeah, I leave socks under the bed, sometimes. I had to pick that up yesterday, actually. It's always such a pain."

But, all I can do is blink at them.
Blink, and smile, when it doesn't feel too forced.

I never say a word, because I know they've never seen my bedroom.

I never say a word, because I know they've never seen
So much junk
Piled up in one place.

Every now and then, when plastic bags and old school work somehow weasel their way into this abysmal catastrophe I call my room,

All I can do is sit.

All I can do is sit,

Gaze at all of the trash,

And wonder:

"How

The hell

Am I going

To clean all of this up?"