MESS

I like the mess in my room.

scraps of paper with odd scribbles,

tickets for journeys taken

dead leaves from dying plants

clothes that you once wore

turned into smelly shrines,

feeble beeps and blinks

from my computer asking for my attention

wires that I trip on everyday

but that I don't remove, 

half-finished meals like rude reminders

empty glasses and bottles

photographs, no longer precious

books gathering dust

No one comes, and no one goes

every pin and needle irrevocably mine.