That room is like another home,
One to where I can escape
And rest on another kind of pillow,
Lying there in daylight.
The mirror, I see, returns my smile,
Reflecting back all of my ideas.

My judges, these people, watch my ideas;
This place is also their home.
Together we laugh, together we smile,
A sweaty work ethic is a mutual escape
And the power of it, like the beam of a flashlight,
Holds us down, pinned and perched on the same pillow.

Our bones rely on padding from toe pillows
To keep us standing, and new ideas
Inspire them to try to make us light,
To defy gravity in the rooms of our home;
An echappe is just an escape,
A performance just a smile.

For that we politely clap and smile
And grab our own respective pillows.
From the standards we can easily escape,
We can degage with new ideas
That expand, from one story to two, our home,
And open the window and break the box form with light.

Another thing, some sort of delight,
As we try to elicit a smile,
Is evident as originating from our home.
Technique stands, hard and soft like pillows,
And we scream, we fight, we conform (or not) to ideas
Of who we are and how (or how not) to escape.

But the love is in the struggle to escape;
That is the point, right before the light,
In the tunnel, where swirls of ideas
Catch us in weak transit, cause us to smile,
And to return to those same pillows
Which first caused us grief, and call it “home.”

And the lights shine on us, and we smile,
And the ideas created in our home
Have escaped now; then from the world we turn back to our pillows.