It's Kind of Like...

A cancer you have, and you can't get rid of it... unless. I'm kidding, there isn't an unless. It doesn't take much, the smallest infraction, your ass winds up in the 'hole". Even if you are merely protecting yourself from getting an ass kicking, the guards don't give a fuck, sure, they'll review the "tapes", but they really don't care. You are just a baby to them, that they really have no desire to babysit.

So there you are in a cell, all by yourself, no entertainment to bide your time. Sure, you can read, but even after awhile that starts to drive you nuts. Funny, some turn to religion, sure, throw me a bible... what do you mean, which one? What the fuck are you talking about? which one? The one I was brought up with, the one that says I'm sure to be going to hell,unless I repent! Ha! Ha! much like what the cops and the lawyer told me before I found my ass in this situation.

Tell us what you know, we can help... sure, I tell, and you can pick me out a nice coffin and flower arrangement... No thanks, I did the crime, supposedly... I'll do the fucking time.

So here I sit by my lonesome, and asked what would I like to read, well, I'm thinking a religious book on how to commit the perfect crime without getting caught, and not be judged by a make believe god, or gods, so what do you recommend?

My journey to solitary, DAYUM! I was lucky though. I had a few things they allowed me. First, was the original warrant, the one that told me why I was here. Even if I knew, it is a constant reminder, kinda of like a wake up call... Ha! Ha! yea, right. I'm a fucking addict, the minute my ass is sprung, I'll be shooting and flying.

I had a few pics in my wallet they let me keep. My family, you know, the kids, the ex. Even if the pics are outdated by several years, it kind of gives me a little peace in that there are some good things left behind. Even if they don't want to ever see me, I know they are out there.

They let me have a sketch book and some crayons... really, crayons? WTF? I could never color inside the lines, nor did I want too. I guess they think I can't do harm to myself or someone else with a crayon... yet often, the world has been changed with mere words, not actions, just words... if only I could find them.

I was once given a book by a friend, he actually wrote it. It was a family history, family tree kind of thing. Though we weren't related, he gave it to me to show how we are similar, yet at the same time so very different, but can get along side by side, even help each other along the way. This was his bible, not a religion, but a guide he would look at from time to time in those times he needed a little inspiration.

Even meaning well as he had, when he gave me that copy, as inspirational as it was to him, to me, it was just another written documentary of how bad things so often are, and the struggles we go through just to live, if even one more day.

The last thing I found I had, was a phone number. Tattered corners, faded ink, and tore almost through completely. I'd kept that little scrap of paper for a very long time. Often standing at a phone booth with the receiver in hand, almost dropping the change in to complete a call, but never doing so.

I knew the call would be answered, and that was the problem. How do you explain years and years of being an asshole, no remorse, and know you'd do it all over again, to your mother? You don't!

I'll keep that scrap of paper, and all else i have been allowed. I doubt if I'll use any, I'll lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, biding my time till i return to regular population, and wait till the next time...