In my room are windows to the soul
And a place for unwritten poems
In my room are lights at night
And the many poems I have had to rewrite
In my room are daytime shadows
And the smell of smoked tobacco

In my room there is a place to stand
There is a place to lie down
And space for everything in between

In my room are blue skies and cloudy days
With large stacks of books creating a maze
There is a place for my hidden dreams
Nothing in here, is as it seems
There is a raving poet with self-allusion
Most often then not suffering from grand delusion

Occasionally there is a drunk in my room
We drink together and talk about life

From the world I have withdrew
Tomorrow Ill be back feeling anew
For my room is my sanctuary
But if I die in here and never come out
Will someone please write my obituary?