I don’t own my possessions.
They own me.
I think I’ll sell it all.
Grand collections of albums I never listen to
Just collect dust on shelves.
Books and comics stacked away;
Movies and games the same.
It’s strange.
How can having so much
Cause me such pain?
I never read or watch any of it.
Probably won’t ever again.
There’s no chance I’ll recoup
Every cent I spent.
No matter what,
It will be worth where it went.
Then on to my closet,
And what’s in my cabinets.
It’s as if
It’s all from other planets.
The barely used, unused, and brand news,
The won’t wear and can’t do’s,
Are all examples
Of my being confused.
I think I’ll sell everything,
Make something from nothing.
After all it’s just things,
None of which I’m loving.
I say goodbye to my attachments,
To material possessions.
Count my blessings,
And welcome the lessons.
Eventually I’ll have nothing,
Except a bank account that’s bustling,
A home that’s peaceful
And perfect for cuddling.
I’ll appear poor to my neighbors,
Like I have no rewards for my labors,
But what they won’t know
Is how much life I savor.
