Poems of a dear friend

The prisoner

Quite strange, isn't it,
To be trapped in a prison of my own design.
Free to move about, but not free to think.
Thoughts are restrained;
I am shackled to my mistakes, my failures, and my memories.
Limited in movement,
Dragging them along only makes the hurt worse.

Pleasant thoughts, however brief, last only as long
As the time it takes the wardens,
Society and Expectation, to quash them.
"No pleasant thoughts," one says.
"You deserve this," the other interjects.
So here I lay, unable to control my own mind,
For reasons unknown, convicted of the crime
Of not knowing.

Sometimes they turn a blind eye, for a while
But as soon as I start to glimpse the window of hope
A warden enters, and I feel the hard smack
Of the prison baton against my face, a yank on my chains,
And the additional weight of another shackle,
"To discourage future attempts," explains Expectation.
"You belong here," says Society.

Sometimes I receive visitors.
They come in all forms and personalities.
Some write off my prison as minor.
"Why don't you just leave?" they ask, "It was easy enough to visit you."
But I point to my shackles.
"It's difficult to move with these.
They're heavy and awkward and noisy," I say.
"They don't look that bad. You can do it," they reply,
Unaware of their true weight, they leave, shaking their heads,
That the poor man just needs some motivation.

Several come and scoff at me.
"Those aren't real," they say, gesturing at my shackles.
"I've seen some just like them. They're lighter than a feather."
"Have you tried lifting one?" I ask. "They're pretty heavy to me."
"I have no need," they state, "I already know."
And they walk off, hardly pitying the weak man in the cell.

Others try to help, at least.
They just look at my face, and see my pain,
Trying their best to comfort me with encouragement and hope,
But it helps little.
They wave a goodbye, and leave believing they made a difference.

A select few don't even speak.
They just walk up to the door, and show me their arms, pressed against the bars.
There, I can see the marks on their wrist where the shackles bit into their skin,
And I look to their face, where I see the places the wardens' batons
Had left a permanent scar.
We remain linked together for a few brief moments, in spirit.
Existing in the solidarity that our prisons, our wardens, and our pains
Were not all that unlike the other.
I am reminded that this prison has an exit somewhere, that it is attainable,
And that I am not alone.
Afterward, they exit as quietly as they entered.

For the foreseeable future, I know this prison will remain my home.
But I also know, that it doesn't have to be my home forever.

~JK