Time would often here stand still.
In the cold, old county jail,
in down town Tampa, on Morgan street.
I was after having lost consciousness,
after an assault for being white.
Awakened by and to a gay nurse,
committing the act of fallatio on me.
It was a brutal county jail, I was seventeen.
In nineteen and seventy five.
Do you understand why as a child I said nothing?
My God makes my burglary look like a walk in the park. That must have been painful to write, hats off to you sir for your bravery in sharing this. Good write BB
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A painful write. pains of a poet is always severe. i invite you to read my poem 'Pains of a poet'. regards