Solitary Confinement

Nearly 15 years since she began to write,

– a trilogy of books, filling up pages each night.

Perhaps it was a mistake, but others got wind,

With dismay, her writing soon came to an end.

She shelved the chapters, feeling unaligned with each job,

Long hours, enormous pressure, many nights in sobs.

Over time, the story flourished in her mind,

Something to share ... though perhaps on God's time.

Here and there, she'd try to write again,

But it had been so long, she didn't know where to begin.

Group chats, phone calls, texts, and apps galore,

A social media vortex, impossible to ignore.

Pings and dings, every moment a distraction,

How could one find calm amidst all the action?

Her book sat unwritten, a calling dismissed,

A modest career ... and a distant wish ...

To write it all would make my life lighter ...

Signed. Sealed. Delivered. A professional writer.

What life would possibly offer such respite?

With little money, it seemed an impossible fight.

Pondering it over one night,

A sudden thought took flight.

I wonder... she mused, with a playful gleam,

How long is jail time for stealing? ... just a dream ...

No prior offenses? Do they allow paper and pens?

A novel idea, an unusual way to transcend.

She checked online – writing utensils were allowed,

A plan for her trilogy, away from the crowd ...

The next afternoon, her favorite necklace in place,

Adorned in athleisure, a serene, thoughtful look on her face.

A bottle of rosé, she sat outside, calm and cool,

Musing her thoughts ... breaking every old rule.

A second glass, no need to pretend,

She poured the rest in her travel mug, a means to an end.

Drove down the road, and parked by the cart-return sign,

A familiar safe haven, and brilliant design.

She filled up her cart, with cute clothing and candles,

... and many electronics, holding tight to the handle.

Then walked out the door, with a convincing stride,

The alarm shrieked behind her, nowhere to hide.

She upped her slow pace, made it look quite legit,

Quickly loaded her car, refusing to quit.

Employees yelled as she drove calmly away,

Her escape – just a ploy in part of the day.

As sirens neared, she pulled over one street from her door,

Cried on cue, and said nothing more.

They smelled alcohol, the rosé had performed,

An open container, her strategy formed.

She walked the line, took the breath test, then calmly sat down,

In the backseat of their car, heading away from the town.

A month later, sitting, no phone, no bright screens,

Just notebooks and pencils – a simple light scene.

White walls, one window, it wouldn't be all that bad,

Though not the original dream she had had.

Her secret intention, no one had been told,

A story of freedom would valiantly unfold.

A year, she was set free to live,

A clear mind, three manuscripts, a new chapter to give.

(This poem is based on an original story and poetry concept, written and improved upon with the assistance of Google Gemini, Grammarly and Lyla May.)