It's very late.
There's a lot of condensation on my window,
so much so i can't see anything.
Not the street below..
I can just about squeeze my fingers
through the bars on the window.
My fingertips relish the cold touch of the glass,
sometimes i try drawing shapes or words and watch
the drips of water run down the window pane..
I can't see anything out the window,
but it's okay though.
Faint blurry lights somehow make their way upto my cell,
golden light from the street lamps below.
Sometimes i try to imagine the view outside might have changed,
asif i'm on some kind of boat that's docked in a small town somewhere..
I'm lying on my side.
One arm is at a right angle supporting my head,
the other clutching my blue biro pen.
My eyes are squinting at the paper,
reading glasses in the dark is not a good look.
My ultra nerd prison issue glasses are not a good look
in any situation but that's besides the point.
My mum and dad sent me a couple pads of paper (thankyou x)
so i'm doing my best to put them to good use.
It's hard right now as the page is barely lit
and my attempts to manouvre it to catch a bit more
of the street light below is not working very well..
The shaky hand holding my head has given up..
Taken up a new, less responsible vocation,
clutching the top of the page as i move closer
to the pad to get a little more clarity.
My words are becoming increasingly mumbled,
almost undecipherable, as they leak from my brain
onto the paper.
Things often pop in and out of my head
at this time of the morning.
If i don't write them down,
they rarely come back to me.
For some reason if i manage to catch the thought,
i always feel better about it in the morning.
Asif the act of writing it down,
making the decision to blindly dig through the piles of paper,
magazines, cumrags and letters at the end of my bed instead of just going the fuck to sleep,
has some kind of significant importance or validity..
I guess that's upto you to decide.