Mind's Treehouse Poem by RoseAnn V. Shawiak

In the treehouse of my mind, I sit and relax, looking over
rooftops and into windows of my soul.

Careful obligations of life are safely stored with countless
linens in closets of memories.

Starchly regal, parading through the den of my mind are view-
points and opinions I have always lived with.

Nothing has turned them from me, not even the swaying of a
good argument.

Stubborness sits casually in an armchair, having been with
me since birth, controlling and demanding it's way in every-
thing.

Past dependency forced unwillingly upon me lies on a shelf
crammed into the back of an unused closet.

Suffocating fears and doubts are strewn without, ready at a
second's notice to start their reprehensible dance away from
life.

Sitting in the treehouse of my mind allows me the vision to
see who I really am, and take the time to dust and rearrange furniture of the past; putting it all into perspective, so I
may decide to change the ways I have of doing things and
possibly change something of myself while I'm at it.