When they go home. I’m left here alone.

Skin and bone, are the only things that stay with me.

We are no more. We become what I was before.

A sore on my mother’s heart.

Her birth pains from the very start.

Those screams are not of joy.

Theres no parade waiting, after they tell her it’s a boy.

Deployed to fight in the world’s war.

Shipped away from the simple things, afar.

When they go home, they think their suffering is over.

It’s only then do they discover.

Home is where you make it.

Family can tell you it’s alright or fake it.

They can’t really know what we go through.

The men of this world meant to die, a public display for you.

Is this how you treat your Messiah, when he has come to save?

Trade him for a killer as you taunt and rave.

This is the real story. I’m left here to tell it, like it is.

My illiteracy doesn’t allow me to hide behind words, like a spelling quiz.

When they go home, they will be welcomed with open arms.

Heroes for a day, all sins forgiven, no qualms.

That is, until the rent is late.

Who’s going to pay your bills, clean your slate?

Out there you have to carry your own weight.

Whoever called it the free world, lied.

The reality is, there’s a cost of living and a cost because he died.

You all got to pay to play.

Do you think you can still lounge around all day?

Living off the hard working tax payers.

Only we in prison are allowed this privilege, the non-players.

So, go home. Get out there and play the game.

I’ll be here, living my best life, where everything remains the same….

Watching the world go around and down.

As greedy men continue to find their worth in the ground.

Burying what little hope you may have had of a good life.

At home most people live with anxiety and strife.

In here, most people live with guilt and Christ.

When they go home, I pray they succeed.

Find a partner and fulfill each other’s need.

There or here the common gift gives us meaning.

True love that can do all the healing.

by Chiron Francis, Texas