Dear room,
I know
It's not your fault
That you're small
-you're supposed to be an office

Clean crisp piles of
White clear paper
Stacked and neat
But instead

You're cluttered
Like you were hit with a bomb
And cramped
With a bed, closet, shelves
And who knows what else

It can't be fun
I'm sorry it has to be this way

But you're an office
As a make-shift bedroom
Cluttered and cramped.

Happiness comes from within
It comes in a small grey tin
The warmth it gives
Is more than any other

On the cold days
      The sick days
       The warm days
The bad

It's ready when ever
             In seconds
                 Minutes
Happiness is grey tin can
                    Colored in yellow
                    And filled to the brim
Happiness is a yellow soup tin.

You stand so tall
With out a fight
Only wavering in the wind
With out a great fright

The air rushes around you
Trying to break
The stress becomes tighter
And you cannot fake

You begin to bend
And twigs snap off
Your leaves rustle
And your bark begins to cough

You've grown weak
Leaves gone
Down to a bare skeleton
It won't be much longer

And one night
The winds to much
Broken in two you've finally cracked
-Cold to the touch

The ground sinks through, shloop
Another winter bites dust
The ground becomes whole