(writing practice) - untitled

     I wasn’t always this cracked.
No - damaged is a better word. I used to be normal. Well, as normal as any teenager under the influence of rising hormones and peer pressure can be. But after the killings, I began to feel… I don’t know, rough around the edges or something. Welcome to the Jailbird Olympics, where they tire you out by forcing activities onto you. Personally, I think they’re trying to tire the other inmates out, keep them comatose as if they’re trying to prevent an uprising or something. That won’t work on me. Before, I behaved like a human - I opened the door for strangers, drove, socialised and ate human food and now I’m another name on a neighbourhood watch list who kicks orderlies and hears and sees things that aren’t there, and curses. To say a mosquito bit me would be an understatement, because it was no mosquito.
     But at least I have my fans. I must get more letters than Jeremy Kyle, Channing Tatum and Beyoncé combined. My ego somewhere deep inside giggles like a little boy, ‘I’m actually popular’, he says. Sometimes the letters re from people who believe I’ll be saved if I ‘accept Jesus Christ’ into my heart… I say the words but nothing ever happens… he never climbs off the cross. I’m a kicker and a scratcher, so the exhaustion tactics of these prison directors don’t know what to do with me. It’s beginning to turn into amusement. The one thing that always gets me to behave, is the one song by Taylor Swift I don’t like that they play on repeat for the entire duration I’m locked in solitary. Oh god. I hate this fucking song, I always think. Those cunts.
      And I ask myself, “How did I get here?”

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.