Scratches on the wall, each one a tiny indention of my life. The bars that I look through are not my prison. The thoughts inside my mind are what hold me. Remembering the tears of my children as I was lead away in chains. Hearing the screams of my mother as she disowned me in anger. Feeling the separation from the emotional ties that bound me closely with the ones that used to love me. Knowing that someone else is filling the void that I left in the wake of my incarceration. Each scratch in the wall, is a day off of my life. Each mark in the hard concrete reminds me of the things that I should have done. All I am doing is marking time, in a prison of my own making.