POETRY CONFINED

POETRY
rises high above the
green grass, the tall gray
guard towers and even higher
above the clouds-

It shines down
on my hands and face
at the crack of dawn and opens
my eyes-

It's now a new day,
and POETRY is still there
tearing way at my nerves,
causing my hair to recede-

taunting me-
Heckling me
and calling me names-

Shackling
my feet and locking
my hands together behind
me tightly like a fresh pair of
wings-

POETRY
are the wild rabbits
that browse the outside
perimeters of prison gates,

and the one-too-many
plus years of my life spent in
a living hell,

leaving me pondering
and staring out into space,

wondering what it would
possibly feel like to hold my
baby's hands again
or to taste my Momma's
cooking and then being able to
write about it

because I knew
that somewhere in it
there just had to be a poem-