Prison island

 

My own personal prison.

The dimensions,

small and compact.

In fact, the walls I can touch

from anywhere I stand.

The bars over the window

leave an interesting tan

as I'm clawing at the confines.

of this tiny speck of land.

 

The wall etched

with tally marks.

Every day,

every broken heart.

Stitched back together.

A work of art,

sticky back plastic

and ribbons strewn

around the beating halves.

 

The bed

a series of nails.

Set to impale.

The food bland and stale.

Only company is the rat

that visits at night,

the bats

that circle outside

and the swarming flies

that infest my mind.

 

My own private cell

on my own prison island.

somewhere in the depths of hell

I stand.

Where the lakes of fire

rage against the outside.

Licking higher and higher.

But it's not all bad.

You get time to think.

A lot of time to think.

I've always got my notepad,

I scribble the things

that make me sad,

things that bring me down.

I also write what makes me

happy and glad,

that wipe away my frown.

 

Thanks for reading

Please take a look at my new collection "Torn Pages"

100+ all new poems not shared here before.

https://tinyurl.com/KCtornpages

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Peace, Love and Poetry 

 

Kyle