I couldn’t see
Past my rapist’s door
In gravity my vision left in speckles
My head was hung low
Like a neck on a noose
But at least I’m not Damien Echols
I spit the grit between my teeth
For apathy I’ve lost before
With my breath signing its woe
My disease professed such lust
In silent bouts of sanity I loose
And it feels like I’m on death row
In the profanity I vent,
My body craves more
In paintings a lemming heckles
I’ve lost my Zen,
By shape of this form
But at least I’m not Damien Echols
I saw him on television
The other day
In the jail cell his senses reside
In the midst of it all,
His supporters have shouted
With what evidence the courts provide
His voice is intelligent
With the undertones of meditation and hope
In the pigment of misery’s freckles
Seems like he’s got more wisdom
Than I’ll ever obtain
I so wish I were Damien Echols
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem