• My parents can deny.
    The fact that I can't clean.
    To me my mess is pretty neat.
    My books,
    My pencils,
    My cheap small pieces of dirt.

    Why can't they notice?
    Why can't they understand?
    The meaning of why I stand.
    Even if its hard to walk.
    It's the same for others that can talk.

    My mess is my sanctuary.
    My mess is my space.
    Why can't I just leave it this way?
    I get good grades.
    Never get in their way.
    Neither I ask for money.
    Or talk back at them.
    So, why do I have to do it this way?

    I will eventually get tired of this.
    I will eventually clean it up.
    It's no time to anger up.
    There's no time for it either way.
    So, why do I feel this way?

    The fact that I dont organize.
    The fact I leave things lying around.
    It's the doing of my good memory.
    I wish I wouln't feel the misery.
    "My mess is organized."