incarceration
Everywhere I walk someone else uses a rusty key to go through
The Gates of Hell
And I’ve aged with all the rusty keys slowly dying in my prison cell
My once lovely brown eyes have turned pitch black like the darkest stone
For I’m hurting inside, the pain deep within my every last bone
The day you decided
To take my father’s life
Uncertainty and loneliness coincided
You might as well of taken mine
I tried my best to hide it
But I really wasn’t fine
I keep looking at these trees
From this window, I can see
Them inside the cemetery
Each evening and now
They stand between me and the sky
I imagine weeping willows in the south
Lately, I have been feeling trapped,
Trapped in a nightmare from which I can’t wake,
As if I were inside of a coffin
From which I’m not able to escape
I sit in a six-sided box, 259 cinder blocks encased to hold me physically captured.
In my isolation, my 2 windows offer 2 different views.
1 for the inside and the cells don’t change, only the occupants face.
And 1 for the outside where the scene doesn’t change, only seasons, night and day.