My room does not
evolve or become;
it morphs instantly and before your eyes.
Things move and fly they burn and cry.
I watch as a dust devil conquers invades
Two minutes later,
waltzing brooms on parade.
I stuff my room full of
glass metal wood.
Some would say hoarding
I reply misunderstood.
Most of the glass is pretty much broken,
the wood is all scorched, the metal contorted.
All of its stays because my hand has spoken.
My room is a magical place replete with spirits and souls and little doors to inner-space.
It likes to listen to music, the scent of a dog... It begs to get ****** off a good Sensi fog.
My room inspires my hands to create...
Whether with torches or pencil, hammers or lathes.
I often ponder
what will become
of my room when I die?
Perhaps as I come back
to bid farewell....
I'll leave a piece of my soul to guard it at night
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:55 AM UTC
My room does not
evolve or become;
it morphs instantly and before your eyes.
Things move and fly they burn and cry.
I watch as a dust devil conquers invades
Two minutes later,
waltzing brooms on parade.
I stuff my room full of
glass metal wood.
Some would say hoarding
I reply misunderstood.
Most of the glass is pretty much broken,
the wood is all scorched, the metal contorted.
All of its stays because my hand has spoken.
My room is a magical place replete with spirits and souls and little doors to inner-space.
It likes to listen to music, the scent of a dog... It begs to get ****** off a good Sensi fog.
My room inspires my hands to create...
Whether with torches or pencil, hammers or lathes.
I often ponder
what will become
of my room when I die?
Perhaps as I come back
to bid farewell....
I'll leave a piece of my soul to guard it at night
