Prison of my making

It's day 236
Picking up the chalk I draw a line across the stalks of white
The single ray of light that filters into this small space burns my eyes
It's been a while since I'd seen the sun
I shuffle across the room reaching for the blanket to bring back the safety of darkness
It's no use, small streams of light still worms it's way through the ratty material
Illuminating the room in a way that was almost aesthetically pleasing to an artist's mind
Well almost
I wondered what title my life would take behind the camera lens
They'll capture the tally numbers stark white against the dark walls
The old rocking chair in the corner squeaking away with each movement
And me, the huddled figure whispering to myself in the corner
My wouldn't that make for an interesting piece
Stretching out on the stained mattress head in hands staring at the ceiling
The water stains joining together to form a map which will lead me back home
Home...I spit out the word with effort
A sacred word a person like me  should never utter
Regardless of the impossibility of the notion I dare to hope
That I could one day escape these prison made of my own insecurities
And finally know what it's like to have peace.