I got here…through a holding cell.

Sleeping on the floor, having dreams of wanting more.

Who I was? I could not tell.

Until my name they’d say over the intercom as I hoped and prayed it was followed by the words, “All the way!”.

That hope, that prayer was not met.

So I took my mat in hand, its covers dragging.

Nothing to show for past bragging as I stood, waiting for the door of bars to open.

Hopin’ now the cell for me they found is bearable.

Fighting the fact that to any of my new roommates to me could be comparable.

I ended up on the 6th Floor, South Side, C-Cell.

For how long? God only knew but didn’t tell

And at that time I wish I knew him.

Regardless, I had no choice but to swim.

In fact, I was skinny-dippin’ in life.

Ashamed of what I’m portrayed.

Not even calling family for a month and a day.

Eating on steel tables with seats the same.

Walls, floors, doors. Everywhere, everyone has left their name.

Some artistically, some just scratched or written in toothpaste.

Windows so thin they might as well have not even been there.

Teasing me to reality. Barely even being able to see the sun.

That shit was not fun. I wanted to run.

Seeing a head kicked in to gray bars over a preferred TV channel

By individuals unable to handle themselves, so they assaulted in groups.

People in jail, still trying to scandal, get over on, come up and gamble

With absolutely no though of renunciation.

Not realizing themselves they were hatin’

And that they couldn’t manipulate a manipulator.

I passed some of the time by writin’ rhymes, impressing my brethren that this white man can rap.

Sometimes they couldn’t see that music’s common thread is what has stitched me together.

Although at times the guilt and shame shook me too much to even think of holding a pen.

In my hands I found my head, in my bed, crying tears of stormy weather.

I learned to play card games that I have now forgotten.

Seeing shit making my heart stop, and was transferred for my own protection.

I guess they got sick of my rhymes beginning to elaborate on my forthcoming resurrection.

I landed in what’s called an honor dorm where cats were still whack but a little more normal.

That didn’t last long because I was told if I went to South 4-C I would much sooner set free.

The sooner the better.

This place was and is its own world, and where I was in this world was one in its own.

Pointing out my character defects, asking me to disown.

Page writing. Feeling fighting. Gut spillin’.

Calling my father with the request to flush my stash of pills.

Waiting in line for food.

Most of the time in an antisocial mood as I woke up every day to, “Hit the deck!”.

Having three minutes to make my bed with hospital corners.

Wishing most of the time I was to view this in spirit, hovering over my flesh as the authority speaks to the coroner.

Instead, the only thing that died was my false pride inside.