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Illustration of black ink spilling out of an inkwell onto paper. A fountain pen is laid across the ink stain.
Photo from Unsplash

I have found goodness in the sentiments of men
and expression of emotions captured by the pen.
Ink travels onto paper, bringing character to light
each letter represented while laying down its life.
Opening lines of greetings followed by salutations
separated by the feelings of many acquaintances.
Each one so personally unique and inviting to reply
shall I roll as herbal parchment, igniting to get high,
and I'm talking mentally, how it affects me inside,
while exhaling onto you, so together we can fly.
To the skies I ascend, near the sun like I'm Icarus
no wax-covered wings, yet the means all too serious
grabbing the fabric of life as its slips away from me,
and tomorrow ain't today, what will the future come to be?
I can't mend the holes, there's too many to see
with patches made from hope, maybe it’s too late for me.
Touched by the memories, of those who remember me
as a person of humility, who’s unselfish in his misery.
All revenge and vendettas, I have buried on my own,
had no worry over mercy, cause none was ever shown.
At thirty-eight a ward of state and still fighting at fifty-two,
can't get ahead of the reaper, no matter what I do.
The subject of death is no concern, I've done it all before,
victory is one room away, I still knock-knock at that door.
See, everyone is expectant, but we never know the date.
God, save a place for me, I'm probably gonna be late.
Death just wanna stop me, I'm somebody else's property,
listen for me breathing, under dirt tossed on top of me.
I know true life is in the soul, I ain't leaving in no casket,
wrap me like a mummy, put my body in some plastic.
If this my last composition, may it never decompose,
shall it sink into your mind, like this story that I told.
To everybody who been praying, He heard everyone.
My day ain't up to man, only when He says it’s done.
Problems in my blood, funnel power back through His.
Mine will only pass away, through His glory I can live.
I know this can't be over, though my faith has been tested
as life will never be easy, I guess you can say I'm vested.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Global Forum Online 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.