I'm not starving like most of Africa, or trying to flea its war 

torn borders.

There is no looking out of a single celled room, an externally

locked door, and a four barred window. This isn't my reality.

My prison is much different to that. It feels like I'm in hell, locked

inside the straight jacket that is the torment of my mind.

No words or therapy can grant me parole or early release for 

normal behaviour.

Despite the years of unrelenting tears no reprieve will come.

At times I wish I was that Cat A number then I would understand

my prolonged, agonising sentence.

I have all the liberties of a free man still my mind has trapped me

within the four walls of grief and sadness. I know not when

this will end but beg to thy maker to set me free.

Often I have found myself on my knee's preying to the skies

only to find I am talking to me.