My Corner
The leaves are rustling here,
And the big dog is whining and pouting constantly.
But no one would really know, especially the scarce human,
What it's like to have such sensitive ears.
Maybe if that daydreamer, who fritters away his time in his room,
Came out to breathe some more,
Maybe then he might notice that sad dog of his.
It does happen occasionally, him coming out here to think,
He sneaks in to his corner so no one will see.
But he doesn't really admit he's hiding,
It's a more of a shirking he will go with.
But he's thinking, deep and long,
While he absorbs the smells,
And sees the scene.
This is where he belongs,
This is where he can think clearly,
About anything: his life, his writing, and his school.
Because when he goes back in, he's like a whole new him,
For a moment or two.
But when he slams the door, that one will drift back into the trees.
To where it belongs, but that's not right, no;
It's where he belongs.