Did you know we built a library of self-help documents for inmates and their loved ones over the decades? Check it out: Self-help Series.

My Heart Stops

My Heart Stops

Seven o’clock, is this when my heart stops?

I can’t see, what is it this time, what does eternity have me?

I’m sick of being inside this box, all I hear is my conscience talk.

I’m a good person, but personally it doesn’t even matter.

My dreams have been stolen, my soul been battered.

I’m shattered as the tears run down my face,

I miss my mom, but she’s in another place.

I’m shook, too much this life took, I’m spooked.

End of a chapter or end of an age,

I’m enraged with lack of true justice, “Trust us”

Is what they say as I fade to gray.

Thunderstorms are coming from the north, my hearts locked down at the port of no entry.

The rains fall, but I’ve been here for a quarter century.

I wish the fires would engulf me from the west.

I wish the hurricanes would come so I can finally rest.

I wait on the ancient one’s return.

I wait as the wind blows each year.

My vessel is destroyed, my mind is deployed.

Self-concerned, I’ve cared too much.

So this is how my house is burnt to death.

Candlelit, the wind flickers my being inside, I feel like it, I might just quit.

Hit and miss as death comes down with its sweet kiss, but for one moment, let’s reminisce.

Seven o’clock, is this when my heart stops?

I can’t see what it is this time.


See all poetry for Marino Leyba #72126