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Vishal Pant Feb 2023
you look so pretty on my screen
lighting up my dark room
hooked again, it's after ten
again
begins the diurnal gloom

I really should sleep soon
lying awake to the illusion  
lying to myself, under this neon
sky
I really should escape this self-made prison

you looked pretty on my screen
but my room's gone dark
I finally close my eyes,sixteen
past four
but you'll still lurk
Mark Wanless Jan 2023
gilded a prison
in the moments of
yet was is
Lawrence Hall Sep 2022
Lawrence Hall 3d
A Poem is not a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­    A Poem is not a Helicopter

                                                  For­­ Al Duquette

A helicopter is not a poem
A helicopter flies in three dimensions
If all of the systems are fitted just right
Otherwise, it does not fly at all

A poem is not a helicopter
A poem flies only metaphorically
If we rearrange the parts aesthetically
The poem might fly much better than before

One carries our friends wherever they want to go
The other carries our love to our friends




More exposition than I have ever written:

Al is my fellow volunteer in prison and was one of my mentors when I began. I am in awe of him because he flew helicopters with the Air Cavalry in Viet-Nam and then offshore with Petroleum Helicopters Incorporated. He is almost obsessively left-brained in all things and I am an old hippie so we are often on two different metaphorical channels.  After some mutual suspicion we came to the realization – because the prisoners pointed it out to us - that in working with a class together we communicate the same ideas in different ways, and so are more effective.

Al sees no point in poetry, although he appreciates the little poems I hand out to the lads as class openers. I think this is because they (the poems, not the prisoners) are short and simple, almost always rhyme, and are mostly Victorian parlour poems which contain a moral lesson and encouragement. This week, while waiting for the guards to bring us the fellows, Al said that prose is made of words and poetry is made of words and in both categories we choose the most effective words, and so what makes a difference. I replied that a poem is not a helicopter, that not all the bits have to fit together in only one way. Prose is indeed a matter of the right words in the right places but that a poem is a matter of even better words placed in even better places (This is not an original thought; I don’t remember where I learned it.). Al accepted my answer, but of course maybe he was merely being polite!

Written by
Lawrence Hall
Zywa Sep 2022
The car is broken:

garage sentence. After that --


it is free to ride.
Imprisonment without help

Letter 379, to Freddy Horion, September 8th, 1996 ("A pleasant postumity: letters 1965-1997", 2004, Herman de Coninck)

Collection "Shortages"
spacewtchhh Aug 2022
My eyes forced open by the white noise of the radio.
It's 7:00. A new day has come.

I get escorted to the line to get a plate.
It's time for my breakfast.
Fill up my stomach without a daily appetite.

I surrender from the visiting room.
His face from the clear glass seems too pretentious
I can't even understand his speech through the telephone.

I try to go out to see the sun and it's scorching.
Play some sports with other striped people
And they get disappointed.
I try to say a prayer I can't finish.

It's just another day to do nothing.
I let myself be incarcerated.
In my head.
Filomena Rocca Aug 2022
There are degrees of confinement,
And escape is not a crime.
But without a realignment,
I'm resigned to pantomime.
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 52.
Lawrence Hall Apr 2022
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­     A Man with a Broom

Leaving his broom in the corridor
He came into class and sat for a while
He was worried about anger management
He had shot up a nightclub after all

That was after his brother was murdered there
He gets out in twelve days, and he is worried
He has passed over half of his life in prison
He hasn’t seen his son in over nine years

He said he has learned to place God first
Some of it might be true
Unreliable narrator
M Solav Apr 2022
I set myself a reminder
For all the times that I err
So that I may always remember
That I am but a prisoner

Delusions are my prison cell
And questions are the key
Yet the gates seem endless
On the corridor to reality.
Written on July 27th, 2019.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
www.msolav.com

This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact [email protected] for usage requests. Thank you.
Nigdaw Oct 2021
sometimes the prisons that hold us
have no walls ceiling or door
we are our own jailer
judge and jury
we’re the only ones
can set us free
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