Life Behind Bars

Temptation is what reached out to you, latching onto your hands tightly and whispering, "Come with me to the dark side where all of the addicts reside." And, because of addiction your entire emotional and positive thought processes hung you out to dry. So, there you sit behind cast iron bars, in a dingy room with no windows and just a pot in which to tinkle in. Walls covered in curses by those that sat there before you find themselves trying to reach your heart. You fight for healthy air, yet you soon discover in a place like this there is no bloody chance. As you exhale, your hands find themselves clapped around your ears, trying to drown out the voices of your roommates. Not a day goes by that you don't worry about your own personal safety, and you dam to hell the temptation.

Oh, rise n' shine, dark passenger of mine COMFORT. It's time to percolate, rehabilitate for there's a revival upon us and a blessed day just peeked. There's no time to struggle or wrestle with delirious demons as this is not the season, given there's a new proposition for this huge population but under one heart attack condition! Be lucid, aware and distinctly clear for it's not by fate, a reckless date nor by chance, first glance or a romantic dance. It's not even a choice! It's the pitch of the voice screaming fears into my ears, settling airtight behind my eyes where all the sadistic lies--lie!

This is where I find my COMFORT.

And just when complacency roars opening doors, ending up on all fours stirring up such dreadful wars, my soul now alert knowing eternity just might exist in this emotional abyss.

I pray to the honor of my COMFORT.

All these tiers of change I must anxiously rearrange, my habits of old into new, my thoughts dangerously askew. When I'm isolated and locked down, kicked around, chewed up then spit out; They don't hear me shout as I'm gasping for air, and no one seems to care. I'm oblivious yet aware of undeniable evidence of my COMFORT. The nightly, treacherous tremors unto I hastily surrender so I may be at peace, in order to release as to not decease. Still the murky moon abandons me. I wish and crave to be free, united with humanity. But inside I'm not feeling mercy or grace, just race versus race, a repugnant place at a judgmental pace. Gotta do my time, I made my bed refusing His daily bread, instead.

Yet never, never letting go of my COMFORT.

She always remains connected, making me feel unrejected and for shame my mistakes, prompting notorious shakes ending me up here. But, there is Zen in this pen as the day turns to eve and I inhale a reprieve exhaling so I may receive the ability to believe that I can see my future fast forward, a brilliant, vibrant orchard where I can slumber into bliss and relax with a stolen kiss. Holding a playful hand, destination, The Promised Land; embracing the whimsical light, my COMFORT. Songs of worship triumphant, we made it another day. A grandiose hallelujah, hooray! Good night stars, goodbye scars--there is life BEHIND BARS. With, for and because of

my COMFORT.