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.
Categories:
correctional, 12th grade,
Form: Free verse
It’s a place I feel off—
not wedded to anything.
Truculent.
I think in riddles
and answer in metaphors.
I dance on my tiptoes—
an adagio of agony.
Passion pirouettes
out of sight.
Tethered.
Bound by grief.
Temptation forgotten,
tempered.
It no longer exists.
It was a pas de deux,
now it’s just a deuce—
a petulant penitent,
an unwanted pardon.
The dancer stirs.
The pulse quickens
to a tango.
Recalcitrant and longing.
Unable to follow the white line
unless it’s condemned.
So the path ahead is delusional—
felt, not seen.
When will the blocks of life
build up
and make me feel safe?
I feel like I’m
in a correctional facility.
I am my own door.
I am my own jailor.
I realise I have the key.
I bury it
under the pile of shame
in the corner.
Categories:
correctional, angst, change, culture,
Form: Free verse
the heat presses down like a drunk cop’s boot,
metal fences shiver in the sticky Florida sun,
concrete walls spit their old secrets at you,
black mildew crawls across everything,
like it's alive and goddamn winning.
men with broken teeth laugh in corners,
playing cards with cigarette ashes and dreams,
the guards walk slow, like they own death,
keys jangling like a bad symphony,
boots scuffing, breaking the silence open.
sweat pools in the cracks of your skin,
rats wiser than the wardens,
paint peels in long strips, like shedding snakes,
you hear screams, sometimes,
but mostly you hear the waiting.
somewhere far off, a dog barks—
but not for you, not for you.
Categories:
correctional, 12th grade,
Form: Free verse
A blanket laying, book-reading, lemonade sipper
turns a page
There is a ghost of sadness in this place
shared madness, despair and rage
Somewhere in the sandy and dreaded dune
convicted breath feels as warm as the month of June
She feels the depression that once enveloped
a once upon a time, mild-mannered man’s illness
Now there is only stillness and something
in the Saugatuck breeze that feels like a gasp
Old scribbles on his walls of silence
seemed, or once was deemed prophetic
“I was wasted just like today was”
a mother’s son whiled away the time
Too forsaken and forgotten to find rhyme
abbreviated sighs and another day’s tally mark
For him, fate…
the future came much too late
The unholy hole handed a mother’s son the shivers
Her lemonade is coldly soothing
sour moments taken in without regrets
Moving her toes in the warm sands once tread
by a man with invasive demons in his head
It is oddly unclear what once happened here.
She turns another page long after he could have.
Categories:
correctional, depression, history, sad,
Form: Free verse
Millipede. Multitude. Millionaire damson. When elevation is caused by an unauthorized z code a b could be an m an an m could be a t or an a so please do not throw coats into the weirs. Especially in snow or sun. As yet a vehicular version of a pavement has yet to be classed as a g curve. But planting playing piccolos but a clock timed cluck is as useful as a cartwheeling crab on an ice skating rink. Haha sail nor sink. Division divulges data derisive design. And the smiley smiley cat. Purring. Plentiful. Pleasurable. Xxxx bouncing bopping booming bacon.. And division is neither a derision nor a diluge. Hahahaha and a cake. Hahahaha and a friendly reminder off a pickled caper. A quiff is a quaff in a quantitive quagmire. A tangerine now on a trampoline. Wow. Bounce. Bouncy. Vern Vorster virtue. Xxxxx molecules of molluscs are mandatory minions. And a mandatory man is not a male nor a tan. Ridding riding radio. Xxxx hahahaha and a dolphin donut arch. But no treacle. Just tape. Hahahaha and feel good a fragment. Xxxxx z z z and a p y q and obviously its time and date and correspondences and correctional xxxxxx distillation z
Categories:
correctional, art, assonance,
Form: I do not know?
SOMETIMES WHEN IT’S QUIET AND I AM ALL ALONE I GET A SCARE.
I WANDER WHAT IT WILL BE LIKE WHEN I GET THERE.
AS A C.O. I HOPE TO LOOK AT THE LORD
& HOLD STRAIGHT & SQUARE.
I HOPE MY BOOTS SHINE AND MY I AM JUDGED FAIR.
HE WILL SAY, “OFFICER WHAT DO I DO WITH YOU?”
“HAVE YOU TURNED THE OTHER CHEEK & TO MY CHURCH BEEN TRUE?”
I WILL ANSWER, “I HAVEN’T ALWAYS BEEN TRUE
YOU KNOW THAT I HAVE TO WORK ON SUNDAYS, TOO!”
YOU CAN’T TURN THE OTHER CHEEK.
WHEN YOU TOTE A BADGE, THEY'LL THINK THAT YOU ARE WEAK.
SOMETIMES I WAS TOUGH
& SOMETIMES I WAS VIOLENT & ROUGH.
BUT I NEVER TOOK ANYTHING THAT DIDN’T BELONG TO ME.
I ALWAYS TRIED TO BE A GOOD MAN FOR ALL TO SEE.
I NEVER PASSED ON A CALL OF SOMEONE IN NEED.
I DID MY BEST TO HELP OTHERS TO SUCCEED.
PLEASE LET ME IN, I DON’T NEED MUCH.
I’M NOT USED TO RICHES, AND SUCH.
I KNOW I DON’T DESERVE A PLACE AMONG THE PEOPLE HERE.
BUT I WAS ALWAYS THERE TO CALM THEIR FEAR.
THE LORD SAID, “OFFICER, YOU HAVE DONE YOUR JOB WELL!”
“COME RIGHT ON IN, YOU HAVE ALREADY SPENT YOUR TIME IN HELL!”
Categories:
correctional, life, on work and
Form: Rhyme
We Go Inside The Fence For Every Shift,
We Pray It’s Safe, Peaceful And Swift.
We Put Up With Inmates, Convicts,
Administration & The Rest.
We Pray Each Day To Do Our Best.
We Have A Thin Line That We Must Walk,
With Courage From God, We Shall Not Balk.
Each Day We Put Ourselves In Harm’s Way,
So Our Family & All Have A Safer Day.
This We Do, To Better The World You See,
For We’re The Officers Of The D. O. C.
Categories:
correctional, workday,
Form: Rhyme