In a Pink-Walled Room

I can’t even call it a room Old mattress, no bed lamp, and fluffy pillows Just a cabinet full of didactic books on the top shell Some enjoyable comic books and dull novels on the middle And DVD collections on the bottom of the shell Couple of boxes full of crap on the floor A broken radio and a wrecked watch nailed on the wall In a pink-walled room I only have this one piece of technology A multifunctional diary to write my journal The only way to express my feeling Rather than to share it with those who act as if they care In a pink-walled room Some poetry are nailed to the wall With words where others barely to understand And others start to think that I’m losing my mind But I think they are the ones who don’t even have a mind In a pink-walled room Where others put their junks on it Filled it with wasted family keepsakes I would call it a wastebasket But they keep calling it, my room What a beautiful life I have In a pink-walled room Where the rain keeps dripping from the ceiling With an old curtain keeps hanging on my window And the ants are started to make their kingdom It stills the best place to express my feeling My pink-walled room