Freedom
Like apples falling from trees, people like
us aren’t supposed to travel very far. Born
into penitentieries. The last brick laid
generations ago. Solitary confinement.
Four Walls, uncomfortable bed, and a
mind that wont stop. Trading our souls for
wax paper. Folds of momentary silence
that we inject with old needles. Tired
plungers push quiet through our weak
veins. Track marks like road maps help us
find our way back when we go to far, but
some of us don’t make it back.
Road blocks along the way. No detour in
sight.
All alone.
Just one more time.
Last Breath.
Some of us die buried in early graves. The
dirt to young to hold our bodies up. Tears
fall like a great flood, because no ark
could save us. Tired families left with
questions, still tracing the tracks we left
behind for answers, but some runaway
trains never come back and that’s just the
reality of this disease. There is a way out
though. Like apples, plucked from a tree,
packed in a box, and shipped far away, we
can escape. We can go to meetings, plan,
make real friends, and get someone to
sponsor our prison bream.
Detox.
Like living through our own death HURTS,
but we survive.
When lost souls come together for
something greater then themselves, they
are no longer lost. We are no longer lost!
Every dirt path we walked through
barefoot made us a little bit stronger.
Hands and knees scarred from crawling.
Tear ducts empty. Dry tears screaming,
desperate for the next fix. Aware that our
souls are breaking, falling to pieces on the
ground like rotten apples left on the tree to
long and not willing to do anything about
it. These are the feelings that make us
who we are. Today we share these
feelings. Crack our chest plates open and
bare our souls. We get honest for the first
time in our lives, and finally
We feel part of something.
Copyright © Spenser Jones | Year Posted 2013
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