This Chair is a Prison

This chair is a prison,

it's decorative bars

locking the world away.

Smooth- grained wood

rakes my hands and my arms:

Calloused from living, am I.

This desk is a padlock, rusty from age,

that sits on the gate of my cell.

Freedom it faces,

it's back turned on my Hell.

These terrible lights,

turned straight to my eye

sap will power like

seeing friends die.

One solace I have,

this pencil and pad

taking my life

like some sacrifice lamb. 


Woe be the one

who loves this dank pit-

at some point he'll turn

on a red- hot spit

just like the rest of us

measly blips

on the radar

of something

far greater than this.


'Hope penicil and pad

do their jobs well,

I think I'm going insane.

Maybe I'm just

returning to plain.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed