Letters From The Inside. Poem by Stephanie Bird

Letters From The Inside.

Rating: 5.0

Behind the iron gates we sit,
Quiet as ever, not daring to make a sound.
I'm writing out my letters, bit by bit,
Kneeling on the dirty ground.
Inconspicuously, I hope no one sees me,
By the door as I slowly turn the key,
Ready to go into the slot, protruding from my hand,
Attached to the chain of my iron wrist band.
I touch the paper, soft as silk
And see the cold room before me, stony and dusty,
The air in here is sorry and musty,
And the key in my hand is of that ilk.
I sit on the stony floor,
Watching, waiting for any movement of the door.

These are my letters from the inside.
The writing curly, my writing sleek,
I'm sitting quietly, trying to hide
As I move around and take a peek
Out the door where the allies are on guard
For anyone suspicious, making it hard
For me to plan my escape, to send my
letters, simple and sly.
Footsteps tapping, clicking and clacking,
I tune my hearing, attention up full blast,
hoping my short attention span lasts,
Something I am clearly lacking.
The shadows of the silhouettes bounce towards the light,
I dash away into the cold, gloomy night.

I reach the postbox in the pouring rain,
A torchlight shining right on my tail.
The scarlett letters deposited on the end of Main
Street as it starts to hail.
Scuttling along, I come to a bend in the road
With nowhere to turn but to the grass, freshly mowed.
I begin my journey, I'm on the roll,
But time, my old friend, and the shadows take their toll.
The shrieks are audible from a tremendous length,
Their's of delight and mine of terror
As I don't realise my simple error.
I am restrained and given a number, I am tenth.
I grind my teeth and clench my fists
In a classic attempt to free my wrists.

Behind the iron gates we stand,
Recognising that we've committed sin,
Waiting for our reprimand,
As we hear them drop the pin.
I slink away to the room, stony and dusty.
The air in here is more sorry and musty!
As I realise I've made the same mistake
As others, similar, but from the late
years of times long ago.
Their words carved into the cold stone walls
Of my Solitary Confinement and the scary, long halls.
I can decide, if they're friend or foe
And what I really want to do in life,
I should start by putting down the knife.

Wednesday, June 11, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: Love
This poem is about being able to express your feelings through writing and being able to do so. You may ask 'Where is such a place where you cannot write? ' But there are many places, so be thankful that we all have the opportunity to air our feelings and opinions through the beauty of poetry.
Happy poem writing!
Steph! (:
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