Six weeks to go in my sentence, starting to heavy whack.

Fears of beyond the outer steels, the fears of coming back.

The daily grind is nearly o’er, and time is moving on fast.

I hope to make it count this time, I pray to God it lasts.

 

Eight times now, haven’t missed a trick, no stranger to the system,

The problem is, some of the lags, when you’re out you really miss em.

It’s not the same old laugh or craic, with ordinary beings,

It’s hard to find the same baseline; it’s hard to know your feelings.

 

Each and every time before, I’ve experienced release,

I’ve failed terribly in the skill, of avoiding detection by police.

But this time, no, it’s not the same, as all those other days,

This time’s the last, of that I’m sure, I know there’s ‘means and ways’.

 

I used to think ‘just don’t get caught’, or ‘lie all that you can’,

Then back in front of the magistrate, feeling less than a real man.

There’s many a person who hates me, and rightly so I say,

But I’m a normal person, hoping for a change some day.

 

Forty-two days I’ve left to go, the nerves are getting worse.

All eyes are on me now; it feels like a horrible curse.

I’m for the shrink, upon release, London for two or three nights.

Avoiding all temptations, using all my will and might.

 

How long before cessation, this question litters my mind,

It’s also steeped inside my heart, an answer I hope to find.

For now I’ll let time tick on, through various nights and days,

I’ve mentioned before, amongst these words; there are always means and ways.

 

Seamas MacFhearchair 29-9-16