One Man Cell Poem by James McLain

Grey concrete grayer is the paint.
What you see on t.v. isn't real.
Never is it silent and half had not their minds,
when they entered.
Life it struggles here it has no twin.
Fifty men per teer the bean slot is left open.
Dreams induced by seroquel are never pleasant.
C.M one or C.M.two dictates how long you stay,
in isolation.
Real life here is worse than Guantanamo bay.
Here the punks back up to the bean hole.
You can't help but see and by the very seeing,
in and out it goes.
States the race of each that man.
The smell it is quite rotten.
As rotten as their souls.