TRAINING GROUNDS
I throw
My bookbag on the table
White gloved hands search
Static
Of a different kind of magic
Wand grazes my body
Detecting God
Knows what
Sweat clings
To my uniform collar
And I think
About lunch
I was late
So its the only food
I’ll eat today
I hope the dogs
Don’t take too long
At the lockers
I think
I left my book again
I think
About how
The pale faces
That represent power
The face
Of the resource officer
With his hand
On his pepper spray
Looks a little bit like me
And that
Puts something
In the pit of my stomach
Cause I think
That’s got something to do
With why I sit alone
I pick at my clothes
And fidget
And think
And when they don’t
Find guns
And they don’t
Find drugs
And I’m free to go to class
I pass
A boy on the ground
With his hands
Zip tied behind his back
I keep my head down
And I don’t think
About that
Cause you don’t think about the facts
And the fact is
I been to prison
And it ain’t shit
At eight years old
I was trained for this
Quiet
There’s always something going on.
The chaos of my surroundings
Seems to mirror my racing thoughts.
I used to sit and listen
To the inmates talk –
Cases, lifestyles, drugs,
Who’s down to fuck
And how to make a few bucks
Its just
Noise.
Meaningless
Like the scraping of chairs
The jingle of a corrections officers keys
The cell doors buzzing
The phone’s ring
The call for chow,
Or meds, or standing count.
The sounds
Start to bleed into each other
The way the days do.
They form a dense cloud
That suffocates
With arrogance and hate,
Sadness, guilt, and shame –
Like you can reach out
And touch another’s pain.
The weight
Drove me literally
To my knees.
Now
In a world with not a single
Moment of silence
In prayer, I’ve found
A different kind of quiet.
I am a 27 year old poet, artist, inmate. I am currently working on getting my first book, Pieces of Me, published from prison. I am also working on a degree in social work. I believe first of all in empowerment. Where you started is not where you have to end up- you can write a different ending to your story.