The Move... Poem by david lessard

I didn't realize I had so much stuff,
until I moved,
Then I realized I had too much stuff,
but I threw nothing away;
I couldn't get rid of all my books,
or all my music,
I'd miss it, if I had to look for it,
one rainy day..

So I carry a hundred pounds of
literature,
Another hundred pounds of records
and CD's;
Nothing light it seems have I to carry,
I'm even weighed down with boxes
when taking ZZZ's.

It's only four miles from my old place,
Why does it seem to take so awfully
long?
Back and forth, in little trips I move,
Hoping things stay cool and not
go wrong.

It's going smooth, I must admit...
Maybe, I'm getting to be a pro;
I'm almost done, just a few more
items left,
Then I can stop and relax and
holler...WHOA!

Moving is still a hassle, you all most
comprehend,
It' isn't easy, and it's damn hard work;
Its blood, sweat and tears as you
well know,
But nothing worthwhile is ever gained
by shirk.

And when the move is over and I
look back,
I can be satisfied in the long, long,
run;
I never called it quits or said enough,
And I can be proud of that and what
I've done.