Down goes the night,
somehow I just can tell.
Another day with no sunlight
and I'll spend it in my cell.

I once did a bad deed,
I shooted someone in the head
then I ran, I quickly fleed,
before he dropped dead.

Yes, I had my reasons
for such a hideous crime,
but that doesn't help in prision
where I'm doing my time.

I know I had it coming...
I know justice was served.
but I hate to feel rotting...
Rotting in my cell...

If poetry could talk
I wonder
What it would have to say about me
Would it share my ***** secrets
Tell of my unstable emotions
Look into my ***** clothes pile
Pick out the stains from these words
I wonder
What judgement would be placed on me
Am I as broken as I write
Are these pen stroked scars on canvas
Poetry
We talk often
And I know I complain more than I should
But please see me clearly
Fresh from my filth