Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

The sum of my environment, not even peace came with silence.
Learned to last through situations, accustomed to the violence.
There’s no particular moments, my whole life was in a crisis —
just wanted to numb the pain, weed and liquor became my vices.
Inebriated on some occasions, didn’t have an inclination.
Smoking herbs can ease the mind, it won’t fix the situation.
All my damage was on the inside, small voice saying suicide.

If success was improved by attempts, guess how many times I died.

No matter how bad my experiences, it wasn’t the worst it can get.
I’ve bitten down on the chamber, with a bullet in its clip.

Somehow I’m still here, despite all the closed doors.
I’ve been suspended like a bridge, six inches off the floor.

As hard as life has been, I thought death would be easy —
how could I not care, when people still need me.
It’s my duty to serve my community, it’s life that I chose.
GOD helped me beat the odds, through this concrete grew a rose.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

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Inervoyce

Inervoyce is a writer incarcerated in Missouri. He writes under a pseudonym.