A room for Messie

I never like the sun to visit
The dirt and dust of my room
My room is cold, sad feverish
My room is a waste-bin
I rewind those channels that never talk about me
But so selfish unlike with the weather, rape and sport
And music, lectures, screaming animals, soaps and serials
My notebook is too old now
to practice any exercise
and my pens, and pencils and stained crayons
that never lick me with its colour
And those spiders
Taught me how to weave
web and stick memories and fancies
Garcia and Steinbeck
Beatles and Flyod
Plath Sinead and
All buried in silence, they never oppose
My fan never feels dizzy, calm and determined
Only those limbs vouchsafe time for me
Id, my dustbin is happy to see
She lives neat and beauty
In my cold , sad, feverish room
That I have locked within myself
Let this room be myself….