we’re slightly painted on
black lines across our face
bars across our skin
traced on in haste

prison was a war
one in which we made
the prison of the damned
who only lived to get paid

he told me ones he loved it
the chase
the fear-a race
but after a while he had enough – of only having a name

his face was hard to remember
the one he had before –
the scars were laced across it
of a privet war

he buckled in for impact
but never was there such a blow
as when the walls came pressing in
as he saw the gaps with-in his home

 he painted on the lines
in a worried haste
that someone would paint bars
so he’d rather the job be his

take him all the way back
to the days before
he waged himself a battle
his own privet war

when he was young –
or at least young enough
he saw his life as a game
so he needed to make a battle –  so as to make it a game that could be won

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