Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Depression was gained
Brains were strained
As we enter the game,
We knew it couldn’t be the same

We were supposed to be anew
But we all knew
School is only a prison
Even though we listen

We have finally risen
Speaking about the feelings
Like the red roses
Blooming in the fields
Causing healings

School has been causing friction
So I use fiction,
To stop a restriction
So I wouldn’t let the tears glisten

As school ends,
I hope for a happier time
But I can get in line
As I’m not the only one
Who has been inflicted
And restricted
This is about my experience this year with school along with my general thoughts on school.Also is for a school project.
It's been 7 years today since my last release from Prison.
The longest I've been home since I was 15.

I made a lot of bad choices along the way
most of which only hurt myself and my family.

Prison is no place to grow up in,
I learned how to shave in prison,
got my first tattoo, lost my first love
and learned what things like
loyalty and sacrifice really meant.

I wasted a lot of good years in there
most of them due to someone else's weakness,
fears and inability to accept the consequences
of their own actions.

It hasn't been easy and I've missed out on a lot.
But I can go to sleep and look at myself in the mirror
knowing that I never gave anyone up.
I remain loyal
and I'm still here.
Even though there are
those who wish I wasn't.
Never forget never give in  STATE RAISED
A B Perales Jun 3
I had almost mastered the art of making my way through life without making too much noise.

I had spent the last 6 years mostly alone.
Concentrated all my efforts on trying to stay out of prison.
Worked on the writing and the poetry.
And doing all I could to just be forgotten.

I had kicked up enough dust in my early years to spend the majority of my adult life behind bars.
Came home with more tattoos, another strike and a
Monkey on my back.
I was home with greying hair, a bullet in my hand that hurt like hell, an ex wife who hated me, kids who didn't know me and friends who had forgotten all about me.

I move as low to the ground as possible now days.
I went out only when I had to.
I was just trying not to be noticed.
Hoping that maybe they'll forget about all the bad I had done
and just let me grow old in silence.

I spent  my 43rd birthday in a coin-op laundromat that reminded me of a crude jail house day-room.
Concrete floors, metal picnic tables with a large tv bolted to the wall .
Nothing was made for comfort and everything had some type of a lock on it.

She walked up carrying what looked like everything she owned.
She struggled with the door and the laundry in her arms.
I quickly stood up from my seat on the cold steel bench and offered to relieve her of some of her burden, to which she shyly obliged.
She was far to pretty to be alone and I was half waiting on a boyfriend to appear.

Nobody ever taught her how to be polite.
She didn't know what being gracious even meant until she met me.

She'd say " Don't blame me I wasn't raised right", it was our lil joke but a joke that was far  to real.

It was her beauty that saved her.
Her body was what most women would never have.
Men felt a burning desire at the sight of her.
Which she used to her advantage when needed.
It's what helped her get by during the roughest of times.

She wasn't a ***** but they didn't know that.
By the time they had realized she wasn't giving what they wanted she would have already packed her things and left for good.

Men would promise her almost everything when all she really wanted was something to call her own.

Her front tooth was chipped from a fight with an ex boyfriend.
The minor flaw only added to her rare type of natural beauty.
Light freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She had scared up boney knuckles and always wore thick silver rings on 4 of her fingers.
Naturally long eyelashes and acne scared cheeks she'd hide with cover up.

What she knew of the world was almost comical, she hadn't been anywhere and wasn't planning on going anywhere any time soon.
What she lacked in social skills couldn't compare to what she knew how to do in bed.

I gave her a safe place to rest without having to worry.
She gave me reason to shower in the morning and comb my hair before bed.

We played chess which was a surprise to me when she asked me if I played.

I introduced her to  Bukowski, Dante and Virgil.
She brought a strange type of warmth to my otherwise cold lonely apartment .
Our time was a break from the isolation and a reminder of how it was to be with another.
She brought back memories I had long ago forced
myself to forget.

Her only rule was that I never asked about her past.
What she wanted me to know she would share on her own.
My only request was that she never asked me to stop using
and when she felt it was time to move on ,she wouldn't take the time to say goodbye.
For "D" Knock'em dead sweetheart.
deadhead Mar 30
the fence was barbed wire
ensuring imprisonment
a riot soon breaks
liakey Apr 19
Behind these bars,
Isolated and dark

Mundane, dull, and gray
You took all of the color away

Your last goodbye,
Words still echoing inside

Dispose of me when I’ve surpassed my prime,
Expired, as has our cyclic high

Filler no more;
sole utility I served

Lying on the concrete,
Hardened and cold

Descended to this desolate place-
Chasing the mirage you portray

But it’s all just fine,
Everything’s okay,
I’m numb to climate of this bitter terrain

I’ve been here before,
Same sentence; same crime
Same demon every ******* time

A broken heart is a prison,
Life sentence till death

Liberation, a joke;
salvation, my only hope
Ken Pepiton Apr 18
The simple blessedness meme-complex, I bet,
what is the state of blessed, as in:
a blesst

Voltaire, he right there, he say define y'toims t'
convoice wit me we share some air, y'know.

Peacemaker, is the primary integral role of the
being process I formed in.

Childhood drama at 2020 Common Sensed Media Low
sense making in terms of words designated,
subconsciously through designer sneezers,

say, did you hear? Does that banner still wave, o'er
the land of the free and the brave?
Are there homes for unwanted children in your town,
or do you have a town because you have a prison now,
good jobs, kids graduate highschool,
easy, union, we *** 'em guard jobs,
all kinds of jobs, prisons, boy,

a big one, can revive the real estate market in a town.
Lots of prisons in dried up little towns in the desert, but you can't see most from the freeway.
Lawrence Hall

                                    Well, Hey, Prison, Right?

                     When, with the chalice in his hands, the priest
                     came to the words ‘…receive me, O Lord, even
                     as the robber’, nearly all the convicts fell kneeling
                     to the ground with a jangling of fetters…

                           -Dostoyevsky, The House of the Dead

The first-period were really bad today
But, hey, prison, right?
The second-period were really good today
And, hey, prison, right?

After class a man arrived solo for Mass
And knelt before the Altar that isn’t there
The chaplains asked him if had been to supper
“No, but I’m not going to miss Mass.”

The man would not leave for his supper
Until the chaplains promised him again
That Mass would not begin without him
And it was so
                                     And that, too, is prison
A poem is itself.
You are a savage
Causing me so much damage
I remember when you treated me like a soft peach
Now I'm all bruised and battered
Like a peach in an all-night corner store
Now I'm crying on the floor
While you bang on the door
You say you love me, sure
I believe you, dad
No, I'm not mad
I don't hate you, I add
Stuck in this prison
Disguised as a castle
Lawrence Hall Mar 17
Lawrence Hall

                        A Song of the Lord in a Foreign Land

          “How could we sing a song of the Lord in a foreign land?

                                             -Psalm 137

By the waters of the common sinks and stinks
They sat and wept, remembering their homes
Upon the razor wire they hung their hopes
          (Let my tongue be silent during roll call)

Their captors asked of them throughout the hours
Straight lines to the chow hall, well made-up bunks
On time to their classes and work details
          (Let my tongue be silent during roll call)

The lyrics of their songs were written by night
The notes and tones well-tuned to concrete walls
How could they sing songs of the Lord?
                                              How not?
          (Let my tongue be silent during roll call)

We all are exiles in a foreign land
          (Let our tongues sing praise after roll call)

(After over a year of lockdowns, volunteers are allowed back into Texas prisons today, Wednesday, Saint Patrick’s Day, 17 March 2021. Saint Patrick, too, was a prisoner.)
Saint Patrick, ora pro nos.
DEW Feb 12
Toe-skewered socks shuffled in years-tattered shoes
Patched-up tweed elbows rested gently; arms folded in poised disapproval
He was my teacher
A man steeped in the essence of the written word
Every bump and groove of his face were the syllables of a life long lived
Stressed and unstressed beats of the tension between us denoted his impatience
For he and I saw the word a different way
He detracted the sweetness of my plum-purple prose
and I loathed the strictness and banality of his expert structure, his measured cadence
but we could agree on one thing
We loved the word
We loved every echo of it in the long night
After fires fade and blue birds sleep
How dreams tumble out of the mouths of snoring dissidents
See those murmurs become the dialectic, the dreams, of poets galore!
We agreed on this
The desperate cry of freedom
Yet we could not agree on his score of my work
Which I had so passionately written till early morning
Rings of the moon beneath my eyes as I argue
And his stonewall-gaze leaves my arguments blunt
For you are young, he says, you do not know the way of the pen still
With sword I could ply approval from his lips
Rend his flesh asunder
Feed the dogs and the birds
Leave marks on his children like slave brands,
The power of the sword could make him do as I asked!
Exactly as I asked…
But with pen I could get nary a nod
I abandoned my search for his smile that day
Yet not the pen
In fact, I pressed firm, not with the nib, but with my mind
Day by day
Hour by hour
Past midnight into dreamland, by the light of the cosmos I composed worlds into waking
Tirelessly, my fingers plodded upon the keyboard
I watched the letters tick by
On and on
Full speed ahead
As if I were running
That stonewall-gaze
Peering down at my soul from an emerald tower
Each keystroke was a step away
A step beyond, years beyond
I sought my pleasure where it could be found
The approval of my peers
My professors
My colleagues
My fans
Scores of adoration, as if by the metric-ton
Still running
As if a scarlet letter of FAILURE were etched in my soul
And just like that,
My running came to a stop
As news of his death reached the shore of my self-imposed exile
Exile from shame
Exile from disappointment
I saw myself more lowly than ever
As, for after all those years of running, those stonewall-eyes had gone to sleep
And had not cared for my embarrassment
My resentment
My bitterness
It were as if I were fighting a ghost I created
And look where it got me
To the top of the world
Chased into an emerald tower
Fearing myself a fraud at the ease of my keystrokes
How could such talent belong to a failure?
Well the man who proved I was a failure was dead
And I realized
So, too, should my defensive pride live no longer
So, too, should I free myself of the fear that manifests the agonizing toll of the pursuit of perfection
So, too, should I realize…
Just because he did not approve
Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t approve of myself
Exit stage left
Where dreams await
And I learn to enjoy what the dissidents dreamed
A life in which our dreams live free
No longer sheltered in the embrace of our childhood nightmares
No longer living in fear…
It's funny, I've often reflected on this particular comment one of my English teachers gave me once.

What's weird is, at the time, I considered his comment a compliment, "Second-rate author," I never considered myself to possess authorship, much less being second-rate, so I accepted it as subtle praised and moved on.
Yet years later, when I began to take much pleasure in, and put focus on, my writing, I began to resent this comment of his.

Obviously, I'm a much better writer than when I was 16/17, but for whatever reason, this comment of his bugged me as I was getting my degree in creative writing.

It's also startling that I got some very cruel criticism from some professors of mine while getting my degree, yet none of them needled my brain as much as that which I heard as a teenager. The irony is starling, LOL.

Anyway, I myself am now a teacher. When I began heading toward this profession, I knew there was going to be some sort of transformative lesson I would learn. Something important. I kind of lead my life this way.
Yet this poem is every proof of what it was that I set out to learn and this is only the beginning.

I love when a poem comes together like this one.
I had the first 5 lines pop into my head ad-lib and I had such an itch to jot them down that I ignored some important things to wait on my slow computer to open up Word so I could record them.
An hour later and I have this poem, which I consider a beauty.
It's certainly pleasing to me.
I haven't written a long poem like this in almost a year.
I've been on a steady diet of writing Twitter poems, haha.

Last night, I was looking at my pinned tweet, which was the last poem I posted here, and I thought to myself, "I need a new one, it's been almost a year."
Lo and behold! The Lord provides, haha.
It was a great day for this, too, because this was a great teaching day.
Rewarding, valuable, transformative, a source for reflection and catharsis, all culminating in this poem here.

I feel quite satisfied :)
I hope this poem was great for you, too.

Next page