Locked Up

In the center of the dark room
that is my mind
sits a box with four walls:
the glass, see-through kind.

And inside of that box,
wearing head-to-toe black,
stands Creative Ideation
in his painted-on mask.

He pounds and protests,
“I have committed no crimes,”
but outside looking in,
he is only a mime.

Across from him, in a chair
sits Old Man Doubt.
His hand holds the key,
but his arms are too stout.

Every day he reaches
for the lock on that door,
but every day, Old Man Doubt
falls a little too short.

Flashing coy eyes
and touting her trophies,
in dances Envy,
crowning the phonies.

She circles the box
on an endless loop,
flaunting her freedom;
a dignified dupe.

Her sister, Image, guards the door.
When someone comes knocking,
she wields her vain sword.
She’ll let you down easy
with a wink and a grin,
but her charm is deceiving;
she won’t let you in.

And off in the corner,
last but not least,
Melancholy lies on the couch,
and she feasts—
on the sorrowful,
lonesome,
discontent crew.

She sings, “woe is me,
I deserve this,
it’s true.”

She could stand up,
but she chooses to stay.
This is her home;
she likes it this way.