Locked in a prison of my own making.
Iron and stone bind me, confine me.
Mortared by fear and doubt,
Bars and locks forged in misery.
Serving my sentence in solitude,
Believing I must shield those I love
From the pain of quilt by association.
I can never be someone to be proud of?
Stigma is my penitence,
Whispers and knowing glances my judgment.
Can I ever shed my shackles?
Will the tortuous voices ever grow silent?
Inside this cell of madness
Surrounded by ghosts of a clear mind
I mark the passing days scraping stone against stone,
Praying one day for a pardon, sanity redefined.