Today while doing some extensive cleaning in my room, a poem popped in my head. Initially i ignored it, but something kept nagging me inside my head to write it, so i did, not sure if it makes any sense, but at least i tried. Here, read:
My Room is my life, it is my soul, it is where all my secrets unfold.
It’s sometimes a mess, i must confess, i do my best to keep it spotless.
It’s where my valuables lay all day, i sometimes wonder if there is where they must say.
So much information it holds within, browse thourghlyÂ and you’ll see within,
it’s really pathetic that i wrote this poem on a whim.
It’s a real god damn shame that i will have no choice but to leave it one day to a
world where i will have to face all night all day, graduating from a room to a mansion
will be my greatest expansion; with the world i will have great interaction. My room, my refuge, my prison, my cage.
By Gordon Swaby