I am being held prisoner
by my own mind,
sentenced to life for what
I can’t leave behind.
The memories of mistakes
that I have made
stand guard and man
the barricades.
They prevent entry to any
hope of forgiveness
or any thought they may
find suspicious.
Instead my only visitors
are my regrets
who at least come bearing
the gift of cigarettes.
I am guilty as charged with
no hope of parole
all that is left is to say a
prayer for my soul.
The 50 year old poet 
I made a decision not to be a prisoner to past regrets and hurt.
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Hi when you talked about they were bearing the gift of cigarettes I thought that was perfect. What if they instead had brought files…and saws…Would you have been able to get out of your mournful state…of inaction?
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Good point but sometimes the words write themselves.
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I’m always amazed where it comes from …and how a poem will just flow out of my brain.
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Your poetry is just beautiful
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Thank you very much.
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This is so beautiful and relatable
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Thanks.
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