We write from these cages
And fill countless pages,
Earning the wages we’ve sown from our sins.
The stories we tell
Since the time that we fell
Can’t begin to reveal all the hell that we’ve seen.
Innocent and guilty
Condemned though we may be
We struggle for words to connect to humanity.
From a place with no sense,
Where our senses grow dense
We crave to belong to something valid and strong.
So we labor alone
With a pen and a phone
And call in our stories, our regrets and our glories.