Hidden In A Cage

Shelter for some,

a canvas for others.

I have seen them come, and I have seen them go. Not always home but down deadman row.

Sad to think of these men's minds, some of whom were victims themselves or just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I am the wall of many famous criminals. I have heard more stories than you could have imagined. I have been written on, painted on and even spit on. (good thing they wash me once in a while)

You always ask yourself, how does one end up in a place like this? How could someone ever do such vicious acts of crime?

The worst I have ever had was a dad who murdered his children and kidnapped his ex-wife.

It was hard for me to be right beside him as he slept. Lots of medication helped him, but it wasn't enough for his criminal acts. To think he didn't get a more significant punishment but would spend the rest of his life behind these walls in rehabilitation.

Yet when he wept at night, he wanted to return to when he and his wife were together. Before they even had the children. A time when he had an excellent job, married the girl of his dreams and then had a son and a daughter.

He wrote poems on me like I was his canvas.

Please take me back to where I belong.

A place before I did wrong.

To the day when we were happy and free.

Now I will burn in hell; please never release me.

As time went on, he was moved to another jail. They dont let them stay here for too long.

The next prisoner started to talk to me like I was going to answer him and help him. I wished I could have.

He drew a face on me with big blue eyes: a smile, and curly hair.

Night after night, won't you listen to me?

Then I took a good punch. "Ouch"

The demons he called them, I called them trauma from a terrible past, were controlling him. If I, "the wall," could have spoken, I would have tried my best to reassure him. Life could get better; not give up hope.

Yet they drugged him and had him go to church. A rehabilitation doctor would sit with him and hear his stories of yesterday. I know moisture came down me as I listened. I longed for arms to have held him, to know he was cared about.

Yet his 15 years had passed; it was time to be released. That young man never did wake up that morning. He put a big "X" across the face he drew on me. Alone and afraid, he never wanted to go back.

Fresh paint may have covered up the messages that were put on me. The holes of where those who were digging themselves out were filled too. Yet it was like with every prisoner, something new was placed upon me.

Pictures of their loved ones and numbers were printed, counting the days until release.

I may have never talked, but I did listen. I wish I had the chance to share and help so many. Yet that was not the career given to me.

I was the notorious "Listener."

I even had a songwriter stay within my walls. That is not wrong, either. He was in for fraud and mischief. Those words he wrote and sang brought cheer to all inside the prison.

Even the guards would be dancing outside the bars.

I knew this prisoner had talent; he had ways to cope. He wrote with cursive writing on me: tender love songs and even mystery.

As confusing as it sounds, doing time in a jail cell. They are all still people like you.

Watching anger and rage as one prisoner would beat the other. They were banging against me. The guards quickly split them up and took the one who started it to a confined area.

I often asked myself, if I could speak, would anyone ever want to listen to me? Could I have been a wall inside a home? Where beauty was around me, where I would watch happy people roam.

The prison is dark, a place for those who have done wrong to suffer. Yet, for many, it isn't enough. No wall can change the crimes they have committed; I am listening, hearing, and seeing all.

Trust me; it isn't that nice.

I have also seen prisoners who didn't even commit crimes come here wrongly. Listening to them, I knew they were not meant to be here. Some got lucky, and the higher-ups came and set them free. (only if they could have listened to me)

A crazy place where I stand every day. A century-old slapped with clay and many tones of paint. I'm glad you wrote down the things I wished I could have shared. There are lots more; come by and write them down again for me.

Before, there is no prison anymore.

When they close up the gate, to relocate.

Then I will be tumbling to the floor.

The many memories of "hate."