A mind, like a home, is furnished by its owner, so if one’s life is cold and bare he can blame none but himself. Louis L’Amour
. . . . . . .
There is a type of poem called a List Poem. It doesn’t require rhythm or rhyme, but the writer needs to say something such as “Think about this.” Here is my first attempt:
What is reality?
I’ve become confused!
I’m surrounded by
faux leather,
electric fireplaces,
imitation vanilla,
decaf coffee,
diet Coke,
lite beer,
nylon, rayon, Dacron,
plastic money,
avatars,
Splenda,
Astroturf,
fake ID’s,
counterfeit handbags,
knock-off watches,
soy milk,
artificial insemination,
politicians,
Wall Street bankers,
lawyers,
Rush Limbaugh,
@#%&#*!@.
