The Prison

I only know it as a prison,
even if I should not. 
It’s cold inside this prison,
the one I call my head.
The warden strolls past the cells,
his smirk as sharp as knives
as he’s only here to punish. 
I’ve been locked up 
as long as memory itself,
so long that I’ve forgotten
who I was before a prisoner. 
I hear the warden snicker
as he walks by. 
Sometimes I daydream
about escaping this hell,
and finding the light 
I so bitterly crave. 
I dream about plotting my revenge,
About striking down the sorrow
and him leaving behind,
locked up and helpless,
and warden of nothing at all.