See me in my concrete box... Locked down, locked up, locked away. From county jail to my crime infested compound in the free world, I still catch my sun through a space between bars.
Focus shifts from commissary to cat food but the struggle's still the same.
Treading water, I inch toward some other chapter, hopefully one which lacks in melodrama.
Watch me with my sawed off shotgun... Pointed down, pointed up, pointed away toward a crime soaked past and the limbo within which the ghosts of said past writhe.
Thick sticky bitter mexican tar calls, some days louder than others.
Quicksand routine ensures that I may move forward, just not up.
Mediocrity realized.
No comments:
Post a Comment