A prison of my own making

Bricks rise on the foundation of the curious,

the grounding and flooring-boards of my cell

within which walls the bars are cemented

to lock me in when I'd like to run.

I white-wash the outside while blackening the in...

while nudging myself to curse the dark.

'Tis an addictive preseciption holding me fast

begging me holler like a Marvin Gaye

or sing the sermons of Tupac Shakur.

But it's me, Ken Stewart, trapped in this cage

aching for freedom while barring the gate.

As I stare through the bars, the deception spreads

sucked into the center of its promising light

caught in the web of its tentacled embrace

drawn to its swamp where I slip in the muck.

It's my jail and I've locked the place

holding myself prisoner within this space.

I holler. I scream. I drip tears 'pon my bed.

I drop to the floor, prostrate in prayer.

With time's transformation being a healer of sight

visions of freedom signaled an eventual break

a stamina of prayer standing strong in my flesh.

The Whisperer speaks to the hope of It's love

coaxing me out of the prison I've built.