One More Day

Author's Note: There is an old adage that says you have to suffer to write. Most of the time I'll say I don't believe it. However, some of the poetry I write is generated by strife. I was in the prison hospital when I wrote:

The sky is gray, the wind is cold.
Locked in a cell we just grow old.
There's nothing here to fill your mind,
And so you sit just doin' your time.
The people in here, out on the street,
Are those you just as soon not meet.
Out in the yard you're allowed to go,
And be with some you're glad to know.
Across the water a mountain tall,
In majestic grandeur beckons to all.
The view of the mountain I never tire,
But it hurts to look through razor wire.
Across the water, people are free
The guard in the tower is watching me.
In the sky the geese fly round
And in my heart I go where they're bound.
To leave this place they take wing and fly,
I can't do that... and so I cry.
I cry for a friend to hold me near,
The comfort I need to shed my tears.
But in this place compassion brings pain
Until you weep like the winter rain.
You're mostly alone... that hurts so much.
You'd give your soul for a gentle touch.
Daylight fades on these gray bars,
The sky is cloudy, no moon, no stars.
Like my mood, the sky is gray
Tomorrow comes and it's one more day.

Copyright © 1990, Doc Livingston.