Ah, to speak of that prison of the mind
That steely shackle of the soul;
Within that place no quiet I may find
Its cruel vice grip takes on me its toll.
There, within my bound grasp, the leaden plume
Puts to the iron page its silent speech.
There, behind me I drag my imminent doom
The false expectations of my benefactors each.
Then, the greatest woe comes to send me reeling:
The engraving of my experiences on metal sheet
So others may spurn me merely by it feeling
When my eyes they shall not ever meet.
But, alas, though mine bondage of record be stone
What I’ve taken is mine, not theirs, to own.