Ode to a Dirty House

I generally do not like poetry.  When my Creative Writing class in high school switched from essays to poetry, I let my thoughts be known to the teacher.  If I wanted to write poetry, I’d have taken a poetry class!  Poetry at this age is all “they don’t understand me” and “the love in my heart” and “the tears run down my cheeks” and “the sweet little puppy/horse/seagull”. 

I hated that unit.

But I’ve grown.  I’ve lived some life. I appreciate poetry much more now!  And, in honor of my dirty house, I present to you an incredibly bad poem:

The dustbunnies are leaping

Leaping with joy.

How they mock me

With their fluffy, puffy, dusty cottontails.

I drown in the stench of a hundred

Misaimed urine streams.

The Legos they are multiplying,

Joining forces, taking over my floor.

The tiny blocks of pain stabbing

StabbingStabbingStabbing

Under my feet.

Ow.

I can’t see out the windows

From my tear drench-ed eyes

As the windows are coated with a thousand

Acid rains.

Why are there pinecones on the steps?

Why are there mouthprints on the stormdoor?

How doth the toothpaste gettest on the carpet?

Whose underwear is that on the counter?

‘Tis an enigma.

What, do I look like a maid?

I have a Master’s Degree, for heaven’s sake.

Seriously!  Why is there underwear on the counter?

Ow. 

‘Twas another Lego.