Money Gang
• Written by YoungFlakes300
My name is called out.
Heavy and defeated
I walk over to the desk where the
Guard stands.
“What’s your booking number man”?
I get the word out
With much effort.
My hands are bound,
My legs shackled.
I am only wearing these chains,
And the hatred in my heart
Is evident in my actions.
I am heading for the hole,
Me and four others
Who’ve survivedYou are okay then”?
“Yep”
Of course I am not all right.
Of course my whole
20-year old,
One-hundred-thirty pound frame
Hurts like crazy.
But all the same,
I keep my end
Of the unspoken agreement
Between us
And those who hold
The keys,
They, who see me as nothing,
As just another
Faceless wanderer
Of this vast wasteland
Of LA County Jail
Where brutality
And misfortune are king.
The hole is filthy.
My ribs are cracked.
My face is purple.
My first thought Is “sleep”
But my anger cuts
Right through the pain.
My head is throbbing.
The cell stinks
Of sweat and desperation.
The rats are out playing.
My mouth is dry and sour.
I am cold
But determined to show otherwise.
I feel like crying.
I feel like screaming
A good healthy ef-you
At life,
But I stay quiet Like a good obedient soldier
Who’s not allowed
To show emotions
I wait
For this feeling to subside.
I wait for stillness
To conquer my fears,
To embrace me
To deliver me into the hands
Of oblivion,
To that place of unconscious
Magic
Where I don’t have
To feel the weight
Of my body
Nor the decay
Of having been born
A human being
Without direction,
Without a home.
Feedback & Comments
About the Artist
YoungFlakes300
Member since May 6 2018