Just There

Battered and worn, it carries music in guitar form,
A little beneath, purple converse high tops, resting atop a pile of strewn about clothing.

To the side lays an old cigar box, carring not cigars, but tools that were randomly collected with care,
There is little order to them, just anything that was found, from awl to needle, whatever was around.

Either carefully done or just thrown around, these hinder the ability to enter this room.
I, like them, are part of this room, taking up just as much space... Just there...