My room is a mess and it serves me right. In fact, Mother calls it a frightening sight. This unlicensed architect only knew disaster. She implements it on the creations she fosters. This fortress of mine is made of discarded sweaters. Torn, vintage books and coffee stained papers. I trip on a dream I lost back then on the floor, Covered the scratches I made by the door. I manage to slumber in my pile of clothing. Solace is what I find in the chaos everlasting. I choose comfort in the disaster I grew up in, For disaster is how my life begins. I sleep upside down in my bed last night My head under the dirty shirts as I block out the light But I'm used to sleeping that way. I was born upside down too. I must be rambling now, and you don't understand the point of this poem. Neither do I, I admit. For chaos is where I thrive, and I lose my sanity as I dwell in it.