A little, white band. It sits on my arm and binds me to this fowl place of disease and horrid food. The wardens give you one tiny, dank little room to sit in, sleep in, use the restroom in, as you watch beyond the wall that keeps you from escape, the many men and women wandering the halls pace, move do as they do. They feed you three times a day, weather you will be able to hold it down is another question as you hope to make it through another day without being killed. On the occasion, you go out into the yard, stretch your legs, see the blue sky and the places to increase your strength. You see freedom beyond just one more little wall, but the wardens just patrol the area, and "Take care of" anyone who tries to escape. The Little White Shackle makes sure you couldn't escape even if you wanted to try anyway. Then you return to your dank, little cell. If you were lucky, you had a cell with a T.V., but it was always stuck on one chancel or the other.
You spent your days lying there, barely alive, but almost dead till you're finally released from your sentence, unless you're one of the unlucky to land on Death Row. On that fateful day, someone finally removes that Little White Shackle from you, and the faded ink letters still on the little white strip next to the lock are barely legible. They read your last name, first name, middle name initial, your date of birth, date of admission. You look over to the guard that was once one of the people who held you in, who frowned at you through you the glass of your medical room every day, now no longer looked like a tough prison guard, but just a nurse finalizing the payment plan. The person pushing your wheelchair, since you-despite best efforts-lost your legs turns from some prison doctor to your mother, your father, or a sibling or caretaker of you. The yard now is just a small park with a playground. Now that you've lost your Little White Shackle, you feel free as a man set free from prison.
Until you feel unwell again... The Little White Shackle latches onto your arm again, and the grey bricks of the yard again cover the park, until you're cleared of the charges brought up against you, and it leaves you again, you get your medicine and forget it till the next time. Or, you wait to see your day in court, if the Judge deems you Guilty, you serve your sentence again, or you are deemed Not Guilty, and that Bland tiny thing decorating your arm would go away again.
A little, white band. It sits on my arm and binds me to this fowl place of disease and horrid food. The wardens give you one tiny, dank little room to sit in, sleep in, use the restroom in, as you watch beyond the wall that keeps you from escape, the many men and women wandering the halls pace, move do as they do. They feed you three times a day, weather you will be able to hold it down is another question as you hope to make it through another day without being killed. On the occasion, you go out into the yard, stretch your legs, see the blue sky and the places to increase your strength. You see freedom beyond just one more little wall, but the wardens just patrol the area, and "Take care of" anyone who tries to escape. The Little White Shackle makes sure you couldn't escape even if you wanted to try anyway. Then you return to your dank, little cell. If you were lucky, you had a cell with a T.V., but it was always stuck on one chancel or the other.
You spent your days lying there, barely alive, but almost dead till you're finally released from your sentence, unless you're one of the unlucky to land on Death Row. On that fateful day, someone finally removes that Little White Shackle from you, and the faded ink letters still on the little white strip next to the lock are barely legible. They read your last name, first name, middle name initial, your date of birth, date of admission. You look over to the guard that was once one of the people who held you in, who frowned at you through you the glass of your medical room every day, now no longer looked like a tough prison guard, but just a nurse finalizing the payment plan. The person pushing your wheelchair, since you-despite best efforts-lost your legs turns from some prison doctor to your mother, your father, or a sibling or caretaker of you. The yard now is just a small park with a playground. Now that you've lost your Little White Shackle, you feel free as a man set free from prison.
Until you feel unwell again... The Little White Shackle latches onto your arm again, and the grey bricks of the yard again cover the park, until you're cleared of the charges brought up against you, and it leaves you again, you get your medicine and forget it till the next time. Or, you wait to see your day in court, if the Judge deems you Guilty, you serve your sentence again, or you are deemed Not Guilty, and that Bland tiny thing decorating your arm would go away again.