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A heart with feathered wings floats on a gradient background
Illustration by rolffimages on Depositphotos

When you’re often ignored and praying for some help
while others see blessings, and you’re crying to yourself,
would you still try to give, despite your situation,
or would it make you cold, cause GOD got you waiting?
I’m over two hundred pounds, but seven of ’em giving —
before I say what I mean, this seven why I’m living.
I always took it for granted; it’s a good thing I had it.
It’s been broken a few times, and it’s never been padded;
it bleeds when it’s full, and been cheated and fooled;
it can activate tears, when strings have been pulled.
When I had my heart attack, I was guaranteed to lose:
without the seven pounds, the two hundred couldn’t move.
This cardiac arrest brought me to my knees —
I was grabbing at my chest, my lungs could barely breathe.
The Reaper came to get me, and Death was on his way.
“This man about to die,” is what the medic had to say.
Ambulance ride was forty-five, I was wired up like A.I.
Telling me “Don’t fall asleep,” and if so I may die.
Headed to the crossroads, vitals began to drop low.
Seven pounds went critical, give ’em morphine and nitro.
EKG showing tombstones, the heart pressure fading.
Death’s almost imminent, twenty-three percent is the rating.
By calling GOD’s name, it took me to this vision
where HE gave me counsel like a Holy Inquisition.
HE asked me life or death, and HE let me choose —
if I chose to live, there was something I must do.
The surgeon had to kill me, the only way to rebuild me
with my heart in his hands. It was GOD that healed me.
Even at my weakest, I pretended to be strong;
the Devil sent his demons to break me to the bone.
What they meant for me wasn’t part of GOD’s plan —
they can taint the situation but not direct HIS hands.
All this time HE was testing me, grooming me for better,
giving me a stronger faith, despite the stormy weather.
Don’t matter how we see it, GOD is in control:
final word belongs to HIM, the KEEPER of our soul.
If you ask how I weigh in, Imma tell you seven pounds —
all our strength’s in the heart. Now, tell me how that sounds.

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.

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