My room is a mausoleum
Housing this living corpse.

The windows are always shut
And the lightbulb stays off.

A fan on the ceiling blows,
Though not hard enough, 24/7.

There're empty water bottles
Discarded on the floor

By the dozens serving as
Unofficial decor.

Filthy clothes everywhere
Mingle happily as

If ****** with the ramen cups
And chocolate wrappers.

A skyscraper built from books
Raises it's ink stained arms

Up towards the concrete sky
Pleading, crying, to be read.

Crumpled papers, like scriptures
Belonging to God, yell

Unfinished lines of poetry
During the Dead's strolling.

The aroma of burnt cigs
Stains the air and green walls.

Another wine bottle hides
In the closet, elixir

For the trapped. A skull, candles,
And a pack of tarot

Sit expression less and
Calm inside the nightstand.

Posters and poems line the walls,
Their eyes observe the goings.

A bed, the coffin, stands deep
In the peering darkness,

Stiff and terrible, alone,
A headstone slab pillow,

Accommodate the carcass.