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Photo by Lieselot Dalle on Unsplash

Cars, buses, trains, and planes,
but I’m shackled by the arms and feet
and restricted from society.

Destination after destination,
the location was my choice to predict.
My mind wasn’t set on prison, but my actions were.

I was taking the avenue towards my dream vacation
and ended up living at the hell-on-earth motel,

where I don’t get a reimbursement back
for the timeshare wrongly imposed.

My gray hair reminds me the hourglass’s sand is flowing.

My children approaching adulthood
ensures me I’ve been AWOL.

not the social media platform
but the millions of seconds passing me by.

Cars, buses, trains, and planes,
and I’m not on or in none of them.

Even though I’m stuck in one place
and everything else is moving, flying, and rolling,

one thing I have in common with it all
is the time travel.

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.


E.D.H. is a poet who was raised in Compton in Los Angeles. He is currently incarcerated in California. He has asked to be published under his pen name.