Life Inside A Florida Prison
the walls sweat like old drunks
union correctional, they call it—
correction my ass,
this place was built for breaking.
men bleed here, quietly,
a shiv under the ribs,
a mop bucket wheeled by,
nobody looks too long.
guards strut fat on overtime,
pockets heavy with side deals,
they sell cigarettes like gods
and laugh at the rest of us starving.
chow hall—if you can call it that—
thin stew, one slice of bread,
you walk out hungrier
than when you walked in.
nights are worse.
screams in the dark,
steel on flesh,
the silence after.
the air hums with rot,
paint peeling off like dead skin,
even the cockroaches look tired,
like they’ve seen too much.
and you think—
maybe the world forgot us here,
maybe that was the plan.
Copyright © James Mclain | Year Posted 2025
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