Captive Arts Gallery

Mental Shackles

Feeling light relieved of weight

At a release date, but not a true

Freedom date, for mental shackles

Of the mind, if only could be set free

In kind.

A life of fear becomes a self-imposed mask

And no matter whom throughout history it’s cast

Hate, anger, blame, shame, pain

Continuously stepping past one to fall again

Until struggling to fulfil the basics of life

Become a physically, emotionally exacting tithe

Where we are mentally blocked, locked in captivity

Held a prisoner from ourselves on bended knees.

To stand up and be changed

To fight oneself to rearrange

And self-actualise who I want to be

The only way is to confront me

The public me the private me

That personal voice needs stronger be

To take the mask revealed in plain

And tear it off takes so much pain.

When stripped of a mask in cold light of day

We become self-aware, fearful and shrink away,

But with hope, inspiration and determination I can

Stand and say: “I am a free man!”

How Can I Explain

How can I explain the pain of a prison gate’s gaping

maw opening and closing with a soul shaking finality?

 A finality echoing screams off walls along dark corridors

of unforeseeable futures, where life-giving umbilical cords

are cut within cold solitary cells of confinement, with an

empty vacuum sucking life from bones. 

How can I express the short sharp shock

of being birthed to emerge into numbers 

I can never forget, where every day I regret 

having to recollect deceptively disguising weakness, 

or fearing a broken rule where I become sleeplessly 

angry at things spiraling way out of control, 

out of control in a place of mental scars, bars, 

fences, walls, all whispering wisdoms if only 

I bow down. 

If only I bow down and become part 

of a dark heart didactically expressing, 

symphonies of constantly rioting bells, 

mental tolls, pounding feet and blows,

death throws headlocks, pool balls in socks, 

heavy steel doors deafening locking clicks,

despairing silence as life’s clock ticks,

the silences between angry pent up breaths

and the silence after swan songs I sang when bereft.

How can I explain?

How can I express pretending happiness 

on contactless visits and becoming cold 

and cautious with heart’s desires crushed 

underfoot like cigarette butts, more than once,

or the dying inside as I reside in a limbo 

while silently screaming and reaching 

for close ones who are finally giving up 

on the family ghost, until ghosted.

How can I explain the pain of infected gums 

and emergency bells repeatedly pressed 

and no one comes,  

or the sound of officers heaving 

another brother down to be bound 

in a body bag when just the other day 

they bounced around, 

not so happy go lucky.

And how can I express being labelled faceless 

by leaders quoting, 

“The thought of prisoners voting makes them physically sick.”  

Hear the mental click.

So that means the bill of time for my crime,

will continue to chime along society’s perception

of my life line, IPP indefinitely, but, it's my life,

It’s my love. It’s my one chance to live.

It’s my gift from God!

And what about my family that needs me?

How can I explain hopes and dreams being 

snatched away in a place you cannot cry or 

dream or say simple words like, 

“I love you.”

Without an implacable darkness descending 

to smother where I have to discover holes 

in which to squeeze just to breathe

or draw imaginary poles to pole vault over 

towering walls and leave and find a sanctuary 

and sacred place under shady trees.

How can I explain?

I cannot.