- D. Ellsworth
The Inner Room
There is a place within the consciousness where dwell thoughts of the self. It is a room we often visit when introspective. The walls are lined with mirrors, but they are the fun house kind. Thus we are always worse or better in this recess of the mind. More than this, like a hall of mirrors reflections stretch out to infinity 'til we find ourselves a demon or elsewise a divinity.
This is a room where poets love to dwell. There they paint word pictures of heaven or of hell. For faults or perfections repeat, repeat, repeat. Soon we become vainglorious or languor in defeat.
Here are three poems from this room of dispute. Arguments you can either embrace or refute. I note that while I wrote this little time, out of force of habit, I have fallen into rhyme.
Ah well—I am a poet.
Normality
We all set goals
for what we should be;
when others do it for us
we cease to be free.
When we judge ourselves
the bar should be,
not "am I perfect?",
but "am I the best me?"
Then take this rule
and others measure
so their current best
will be what we shall treasure.
Math does not count,
not the norm, not the mean,
for nobody quite fits,
everyone's in between.
Day Fade
I would like to stand
in a secluded glen
hidden from the chaos
brought by men.
There I would sit and wait,
let life be,
until silhouettes and silence
set my spirit free.
Inflation or Inflated
Two dimes and a nickel,
twenty-five cent,
for my inner thoughts,
that's the going rent.
A penny was the rate
full many year ago,
but inflation took its toll
upon my ego.