Attiction?

Does that make me an 'attict'?  One of the advantages of being a hoarder (and there are so many DISadvantages) is that I can think "Hmmm, I seem to remember writing a poem about an attic when I was about 11...well, it must be here somewhere!"  And it was.  And here it is.

Now it makes me smile to see that I clearly understood back then that the most important thing a poem had to do was RHYME.  Meaning was secondary, as was, well...poetry.  Although the little rebel in me did throw in a final UNrhyming line.  I also find it strange to think that I was painting a picture in words of something I'd never seen or experienced.  There is nothing in this poem that came from my actual life...no china elf, no stained glass windows...and I've never owned a cat (truth to be told I'm more of a dog person, but obviously dogs and attics didn't quite work in my juvenile poetic vision).  Reading it again, I can still feel my way into the idea I had, I can still see this place in my head as I imagined it then.  I still 'know' that the little chair, for example, was a gift from some far-off adventure seeking relative (an uncle perhaps) who travelled the world and sent home exotic presents for birthdays and Christmas.  An uncle I never actually had, though it's fairly clear I would have liked one.  Not that I was bereft of uncles, I had the cream of the crop of funny, loving, wonderful uncles, but they were not on the whole an adventurous lot.  So this post is not really about anything at all, except to further illustrate that my obsession with attics started at an early age, and is probably therefore quite incurable.