Waking up in pain and barely getting any sleep that’s all to familiar to me.
Wearing a green jumpsuit with the number one of three hundred and three,
serving 22 years to life is this all I’m going to be.
Trying my very best to live my life in the world that may not fit,
reminding myself in this jail cell of a body, I can’t and wont believe this is it.
Trying to escape but you know you can’t break free,
trying to fit into society while people steady judge when they don't even know me.
Stereotyping, shocked that I can even speak,
just because of the wheels built in front of my chair acting as my feet.
I type my soul out each and every day hoping the world can one day see,
that I’m a just a regular person I just do things differently,
Letting my mind go free escaping from the world in my written words,
not letting anyone or anything stop me, soaring above like the birds.
But as my left stiffen up and my body reminds me of what control is has over me,
I am often reminded, I am One out of Hundred and Three.
