by +Steven Curtis Lance
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Rated "G" by the Author.
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When I was in Unit Five we had a cage
Then in Unit Three we had a black tar yard
Places full of emptiness smoking with rage
Where our faces and voices and choices were hard
There my roommate was an angry amputee
In piss soaked Unit Five his hard broken voice
Spoke against his being awoken to be
Again meant not to be but then he had no choice
In Unit Three I bunked with two quite quiet
And rather confused men who understood me
They liked to watch but stay out of the riot
Model boys of bachelor eccentricity
And though we were all sedated like zombies
Or maybe because of that we had trouble
I had never seen such anger as in these
Broken ones each in their own freshly popped bubble
Impotent rage of broken futility
Struggling against the smugness of our masters
Led to some interpersonal disasters
But I met a girl there I know remembers me
And there was a lot of just that sort of thing
In that lockdown psych ward awkward sort of way
As the thing that took away that sort of sting
Of realizing madness once if not for all
The only way is up from that sort of fall
But I take with me these my madhouse memories
Wherever I go until when I am where
I find happiness then I will call that girl from there
+Steven Curtis Lance
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|Reviewed by Diana Legun (Reader)
|To me, this is a PILLAR of a poem. It has a ripeness of experience seasoned with herbs from The Forbidden Garden. I know I've never tasted any. And that is what packs the punch for me in reading this amazing composition. The visual "...smoking with rage" is sublime. ~ ~ Diana|
|Reviewed by Jane Noponen Perinacci
|Oh, Steven! I like this a lot!!