Here..
In the room of my life.
The objects keep moving.
The twenty-six keys of the typewriter on my laptop,
Are never stop for clicking.
Once the books have been tucked,
Shelved away in a form of sorted line.
The literature of desk reference.
As a hidden treasure of mine.
In the twelve-twenty inch system.
The melody has been strained,
Accompany the trunk who jailed.
While glass of coffee still in its might,
Try to escort this kind of cloudy night.
The sockets on the wall,
Never be like a cave of bee,
Seems like the feeling i tight.
Never felt such empty.
Each of these eyeball are never shut,
Staring with the cold-eyes vision,
Seen the scenery of this habitation.
Sometimes goes up,
And often down.
Here..
In the room of my life, i always doing my B.
And who cares? Nobody cares about me.
It is me, with all satisfaction from my body.
Not you, you, or even you can be like me.
In the room of my life...
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