If only life was as easy to handle as a pile of laundry.
It builds up and up, but a quick load or two will shrink it back down.
And then all that is left is the warm smell of lavender soap and an empty basket.
But when life piles, it forms heaps.
It build and builds until the basket below starts to break.
Wickers snaps. Cloth tears. Plastic folds.
And their is no quick fix to the mess that is left in ones head.
A load or two won't wash out the past.
It won't replace the scent of fear with the scent of lavender.
And if the basket does empty, it still leaves behind remnants of the heavy load.
Baskets still broken. And waiting. To collapse under the next heavy load.
If only life was like laundry, then maybe I would't break.
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