If you say bad things,
you can go to jail.
If you say good things,
no one really cares.
Writing when sober is a thing of the past.
My family’s gone and friends going fast.
Brothers turned his back, filled with shame, when looking down.
Sister sits at home wearing her new born crown.
Spent months in the decrepit jailhouse.
Rehab is my only house.
Another druggie behind bars.
I have no retreats for my life in need of repair.
Six more months with good behavior.
This wont make my life any better.
Ive been in and out since I was a teenager.
I’ve brought this onto myself again.
Pen Can Write
Pen Can Draw
It Can Even Paint
Pen can fill Colours
In Shapes and Drawings
And in peoples Life too
Pen has Sympathy
Pen has Empathy
Pen has Emotions too
Pen can Heal
Make you feel
Calm and cool
Pen can save
It can control
The way we behave
Pen Can Fight
For your rights
And for others too
Pen can **** colours
From peoples life
And make it pretty hell
Pen can help you
****** poor's property
And make you very rich
Pen can throw
Culprit in Jail
Or can even grant him bail
Pen could be Cruel
Only needs some fuel
Then it could easily burn
Pen is Sharp
It can Cut and Wound
And Make you Bleed
But is it really the Pen
Or the Hand and Mind
Of one who uses the Pen
Pen is a Weapon
Pen is Lethal
So handle with care
Pen has immense capabilities and immense power. So how it should be handled
I wonder if the handcuffs were hereditary
If we were fed through those chainlink umbilical cords
Cut free and raised in disguised prison wards
I think our birth certificates may have been the first warrants for our arrest.
“Prison” was never a ***** word growing up
It was tossed around in potato salads
Mixed into our cole slaws
And served to us like pecan pie
“Prison” was not a ***** word
It was just a place that family members ended up
A Motel 6 specifically designed for Randolphs
But then middle school started
I was told that prison was for bad people
I refused to believe that it was for bad people
That my family shared rooms with criminals
Talked with murderers and thieves over a metal dinner table
That they were bad people.
How are you supposed to feel when you’re told that your DNA is bad people?
What are the charges against my biology?
What crimes have my genetics committed against the court?
Why are their laws written down in my ancestors' blood?
I suppose prisons are for bad people
But I don’t think you’re a bad person.
I wish I could just believe you’re a bad person
Since you’ve missed every warrant for communication
Every request for appearance to the important dates of my life
And I still want to pardon you from all charges
Because you’re my big brother.
I don’t think you’re a bad person
It’s easier to think that the handcuffs were hereditary
Than to believe that you ended up here on your own accord
And I wish this was your first time
But this isn’t my first time crying your name into a cinderblock wall
Begging for the release of my bubba
You always laughed when I called you bubba
Said that I had a way with words yet I still couldn’t pronounce “big brother”
I wish we got to know each other better
We were separated through a cascade of different fathers and custody cases
Names inked into legal paper before I even knew how to write it myself
I haven’t talked to you in over a year now
The only recent photos I have of you were taken at a police station
But you only got arrested a month ago
I can’t excuse the other eleven
What’s your excuse from running from family?
From the only sibling, you have left?
These handcuffs are hereditary
And every time they rubbed against your wrists, mine burn
Every time they say your name in a court setting
I hear it slamming into the sides of my skull
Every time they shut the bars of your cell
I am barred from another part of my soul
And I wonder if my name even passes through your thoughts
Cause when we mourned for our lost sister together
You said it was us against the world
So what’s the reason why you never returned my calls?
You said we were the only family that we had left
But as children of parents who didn’t care for them
The word “family” didn’t exactly hold much importance
We spent decades masquerading ourselves in the backgrounds of other people’s family photos
Trying to pretend like we weren’t secondhand children
We weren’t lost souls
Yet when they recounted their old memories
We could never fit ourselves into their homes
I relied on you to keep out of trouble
And raise your kids better than Mom ever raised us
But my nieces and nephews are still shallowing down the word prison like it’s Tylenol
You said I was the only family you could trust
The way you’ve treated me and your kids show me what I should’ve known all along
Whereas I had a way with your words
You never understood their meaning
Preferred silent smiles and passive-aggressive grunts towards showing emotion
You don’t know what family means
And I wonder if you can even feel my pain
Yes, these handcuffs are hereditary
And I feel your felonies burn in my veins
Causing avalanches in despair to cover my brain
Because what you don’t realize is as the youngest sibling
I inherited everyone’s pain.
There is a higher rate of prayer in war zones
because a peaceful society takes things for granted.
There is a higher rate of second guessing in jail
because there is plenty of time to think.
There is a higher rate of dreams inside dark days
because that houses a creative spark of creation.
Inspired by Johnny Noir Thank you
It’s a city from the outside,
Shining on a hill
But from the inside looking out
It’s just another jail
It sometimes feels like the city walls are pressing in, suffocating me, but I can’t leave, at least not yet. Soon, though, I’ll be leaving; soon... I just have to remember to breathe long enough to get there.
I have a sentence to life
And the warden is Death.