H Phone 2d

Let me out of this prison
I am in incredible pain
Everything is falling apart
Save me please

An acrostic is typically a poem where the first letter of each line forms a word or a sentence.

I sit and watch
as the stain slowly seeps
into the fibers of our white carpet

You stand and watch
as the stain of red
deepens on the hand print on my cheek

The silence in the house
grows heavy
with the stillness
of the moment

Waiting on the edge of patience
to see
who will explode first

But the silence
will be disappointed
to know that this time
will be different

You stare in shock
at the outcome of your actions
but I wait no longer to reply

I slip off the shackle
of metal and rock
and place it carefully on the table

And leave my seat
unoccupied
for today
tomorrow
and the day after that

I head for the door
ignoring your please
and calls
that you'll change

It's over
I'm done
I'm never coming back

I run, they chase.
Genetically modifying the master race. We are trapped, for it will always knows your face.
Anytime and any place.
Facial recognition in your private space. Never overlook a clue and never leave a  trace.
For they will charge you with a premeditated sentence.
Can we comprehend this as our fate, while others are being hurdled through these prison gates.
Everyone can run but we'll never be hidden.
This kind of knowledge is completely forbidden.
We are the enemy as ponds set in place. So I run, yet they chase.

O.K corrals and swaying lunch tray doors.
Bucking shoots made with thick concrete floors.
Overrun cow pens like stacked cubical dens.
Government controlled farms filled with pen pal friends.

when they replaced my half-torn slip-ons with velcro, i laced up.
orange jumpsuits pushed lunch trays and sized from the waist up.

© Matthew Harlovic

My mind clung to some hearty laughs and stories shared on the inside. I spent new year’s eve with my students inside prison, amid snow, desolate gray roads, sky alive with sinister clouds, no wonderful sunset, moving in silence, hit by the smell of a poorly ventilated basement, only a sliver of orange glow coming from a distant farmhouse on Moon Road, passing my favorite female guard after a full-body pat down, her raspy voice, tired blue eyes. Talented, creative, smart people do terrible things. At the base level, that is what is insoluble. But there’s much in life I can’t figure out. Last Sunday one of the guards called me on the prison phone to tell me my guys couldn’t “walk” yet because another group of inmates was outside. She asked that I tell them to sit down. “Please sit down,” I said politely as they gathered to leave. “Sit down!” I said. They did right away. Then I laughed. I always seem to laugh at inopportune times. I am exposed to depths, suffering, hidden opportunities for achievement, during what others would describe as bleakness. It’s surprising that in those depths we find only human qualities, exposing vulnerabilities. I’m thankful for each moment on the inside.

Rebecca Sorenson Dec 2017

Why do we hide ourselves
burrowed deep underground
into the confines
of our mind?

It’s like a prison
one that can be harsh
yet also soothing
almost like a spa

And you get so caught up
in the massages
that you forget
all of the beatings

And when it switches
you’re struck down
again and again
until you’re back at square one

And all of this back and forth
it’s taking its toll
wearing you down
until you can’t even think

Perhaps we should tear the prison down
and instead, build a house
a cozy place to call home
where there is no judgement
and you can finally be you

I wrote this for a friend. He is having trouble finding himself. I understand, fore I've been in his place before.

In light we see, the blemishes,
Give me darkness i insist,
Neath raven skies
The rhyming mind
Exists but never lives

The light at first diminished
Lost from sight,
I Squint to find,
Was the progeny of truth
Inside I bitterly denied

The light at first a glint
Of hope,
Now shimmering and bright
Existing neath
The raven sky
Now living as the mind

A prison i had created for myself, the story teller always writing fatal endings for himself, the truth within that can be the difference between being consumed by the darkness and merely in the presence of
Iska Dec 2017

A girl in a snow globe, delights in her world,
she watches, enchanted, as the snow falls down,
it drifts and glides and swirls around
before finally landing upon the ground.
until one day she notices the glass,
and she understands (realizes)  the prison at last.

I may turn this into a longer poem or a short story.
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