Clutter

I like it, sort of.
It’s a way of owning
your space, crowding it
with things. A way of
embracing chaos, depending on
how much order you impose
upon it.  

Comes a day, though,
when a pile of papers
avalanches or a stack
of random items
built by convenience
collapses to the floor,
perhaps pushed by
a frustrated cat.

I like it, sort of;
it replicates untidiness
I see outside, makes it easier
to pretend that I am 
OK like this, to pretend I am
living in the wild
by living like this.