I sometimes sit and think about my past life
and the crimes I have committed
I wallow in guilt ridden despair,
I am morose, and I seem pitted,
against my own spirit and mind
What solace is out there to find?
Is this just me, or a symptom of all humankind?
I try to focus on the good times and run to reminisce
about the days I was free from my mental prison
It’s those days I cling to, and those days I miss
What I have left is my ability to write and to rhyme
while I sit here and think about my most insidious crime
When people ask me what I’m doing, I just tell them “I’m doing time”