A Laundry Basket In The Corner Of A Room

Welcome to Tiny Loud World!

I’m very, very grateful for your time and attention. It’s worth noting that you’ve chosen to support a beginner in your own lovely way. So, thank you!

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Earlier this week, on a very regular day, something that mostly stays in the background caught my attention, and it stayed with me the entire week. I just couldn’t shake off the visual and the emotions that came with it. So, I decided to put it into words.

Was I trying to capture the tree or the eagle?

My sweet mother keeps a laundry basket in the corner of her room.
The clothes pile up as days go on,
The clothes pile up as life moves along.
All mixed up, all messed up.
All sitting in the basket,
Waiting for their turn.


All sitting in the basket,
Waiting for their turn.
I cannot help but look at it.
I cannot help but think about it.
It evokes something in me.
I cannot help but have feelings about it.
Who looks at a laundry basket
And gets knocked by a wave of emotions?


Who looks at a laundry basket
and gets knocked by a wave of emotions?
Maybe someone who has a similar laundry basket
Sitting in the corner of a room
Inside the world in her head.
Only it's filled with emotions that she's kept at bay.
Only it’s filled with emotions that she’d deal with—
Someday.


Only it’s filled with emotions that she’d deal with—
Someday.
Someone who matters to me looked at me funny—
I put that emotion in the basket,
To deal with it one day.
Someone picked another friend over me—
I put that emotion in the basket,
To deal with it one day.
I shared too much,
I shared too little.
I held on too tightly,
I let loose too soon.
I put these emotions in the basket,
To deal with them someday.


I put these emotions in the basket,
To deal with them someday.
The emotions keep piling up,
The emotions keep piling on.
I promise myself I’d deal with them later.
I promise myself a future
In which to all my emotions I would most definitely cater.


I promise myself a future
In which to all my emotions I would most definitely cater.
But the pile grows on,
So does my delusion
That the basket is bottomless.
The pile grows on,
But not my capacity to
Hold together any longer my mess.


The pile grows on
For a day to arrive
When the basket itself
Wants to feel light.
The pile grows on
For a day to arrive
When all that was kept at bay
Demands a voice, demands a space.




For now, I do not promise myself
That I will examine the pile.
For now, I do not promise myself
That I won’t let it accumulate
For a long, long while.


I do, however, promise myself
To admit its presence.
I do, however, promise myself
To feel its weight—
The heaviness in its existence.

I write in the hope that it stirs up something noticeable in whoever reads it. If that is what it does to you, I’d love to know!

Thank you for your time!