the radio's telling me i've had enough time
to grow up and get rid of my old stuff.
i've got no style, just some posters i drew on the wall
and some piles on the floor, and an OK view.

dog-eared sci-fi and some scratched up CDs
that i can't be surprised no-one wants but me.
i need some assistance! i can't seem to care
that i sleep in old sheets, or i sit on a bad old chair.

this is my mess. my mess loves me the best.
i clean up nice, don't make me pass the white glove test.

put it back in the closet and back on the shelf
everything is left over from someplace else.
sometimes i feel crowded, but never alone.
when i forget myself, i just ask the stuff i own.
accidentally my own.