The Old Prison Worker

A poem

the routine violence that I lived still sneaks up on me

visions of cut throats, shanks, and crude beatings

it’s efficiently packed, yet it consistently resurfaces

ripping me from the now and into the void

atmospheres shouldn’t be this confined, or tense

it’s deteriorates, the wellbeing of mind and body

fecal covered loons howl at the moon and take on the team

but let’s not overlook rampant institutional racism

it’s a decaying shark, fangs dug into the meat

ripping away at it, stripping away rights

“Shut up 02843, and submit to the cuffs.”

I concede that I was perplexed at first

there was so much to take in

an ignorant cog with a baton,

and once my eyes were cleared, I got sick

“I contribute to this?”

trauma, fear, anxiety

permanently locked away in that place

as it constricts my body until I can’t draw another breath

all around me is yelling, brutality and exploitation

it forces itself into my lungs and I suffocate