Jailhouse Blues

I have been incarcerated by my own mind.  I have created these bars that keep me on the other side of life.  I am the prisoner and the warden.  I've tried every key I can find, and none of them work.  Some of them fit the lock,  but I just can't get them to turn.  I straddle the line of hope and hopelessness, leaning some days to one side, and some to the other side.  Once in a while, I reach my hand through the bars, for a taste of freedom.  This is what it feels like...the heat of sunshine on my arm, or the feel of a light breeze through my fingers, the touch of a loved one that draws me out, yet burns like fire.  And then I pull my arm back in, and contemplate how I got in this cell in the first place.  Why was I plagued with a mind that won't let me be free?  I'm here because I'm guilty.  Because it's somehow my fault that I've lost the key.  Because I know it's somewhere.  I've seen it before, at some time in my life that I can hardly remember now.  I am alone in this jail, watching the world go by.  Every day, I frantically scratch at the walls, hoping to find the secret hole where the key is hidden.  But, all I find is crumbling cement, the remains of failed attempts.  It's lonely and sad in here.  It's dark and confusing.  I am my own worst enemy.  I will scratch and dig until I find what I'm looking for, what I need to be free, what I need to feel like everyone else.  I am afraid of the outside, but I've done my time.