Gotta Take Care of Me
These days my home is a disaster where no neatness is mastered.
For years I did the spic and span scene for a spouse who notices
only the TV screen and our part alien, completely annoying teens.
I eventually deciphered my efforts made none of them nicer or wiser.
I realized that to remain a cleanliness and organizer striver would sooner than later require I take a daily tranquilizer.
In time, I learned my bed was quite a smart desire and the
art of long naps was my perfect mood equalizer. So, why brood
over other family member's feelings when my own felt nicer.
There was a time when dust bunnies reduced me to shame
but, now they’re just fluffy cuties that I individually name.
Whereas I once frequently behaved like a total grump
because all treated our dining table like the local dump,
I now idly ponder when the pile will style a solid ceiling thump.
Home-nest chores of potential upset-tests no longer interest my
new style, but soaking in the tub attracts my delight worthwhile.
My bathroom has become my private, pampering isle.
Magazines to thoroughly savor, tempt me in a dream-flavored pile.
Within that little room I’m managing a pampering cocoon.
Once upon my stress time, I would be cryin’ over clothes
not ironed and family tried neither soothing or inspiring me.
These days my ironing policy is that such is pure folly
and that only laundered attire need be desired. I no longer
grow vacuum sore ‘cause rooms are too trashed for dirt to hit floors.
I am learning to keep my child-like, spontaneous smile
despite any and all house or family trials.
If in this lesson I succeed, that’s all I really, truly and mostly need.
I wish to live and love centered in a state of relaxed
‘cause that’s where my spic and span are truly at.
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