I built this prison by hand, laid every brick until I couldn't see the world around me.
Shackles on my ankles, anchors keeping me from floating away.
Solitary confinement the only solace l've ever known.
I built this prison by hand, my sentence indefinite.
My pain written on the walls, a reminder of why I'm here.
Memories kept out like the worst kind of contraband.
Suffering consequences of actions not my own.
Was my trial fair? Do I deserve parole?
Having once felt safe within these walls, I find myself claustrophobic.
Suffocated by unearned guilt, choking on shame.
Cracks in the brick reveal light.
A reminder that the sun rises, time passes, though I stay here.
If I built this prison by hand, what else can I build?