So we repeat the head-nod-fist-bump-what-up-fam-
how-you-doin’ routine. As if anyone gives a shit.
Camaraderie’s rare in this vast necropolis. After all
who’s got time for others when their basic needs
ain’t being met? Feelings are luxuries of the living,
the poet. Funny I should say this, being a wellspring
in a desert, but these pages overflow with more night
than day, &, if I’m being honest, ink no longer drips
from my pen like saliva down a gemstar blade —
for what vessel could ever hold space? The Poet.
I’ve met a few on this bid: most of them smiled
deeply, upsetting the stereotype of the wordsmith
as a haunted soul without recourse to happiness.
God-awful actors who couldn’t pretend otherwise.
Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.