Choice of words

Choice so obscure

Obscure mind

Obscure line

Line of sight

Line the sky

Sky that fell

Sky of poems

Poems for you

Poems that bled

Bled from soul

Bled for time

Time and laughter

Time well-spent

Spent so freely

Spent with you

You now busy

You now gone

Gone from me

Gone for good

Good things end

Good things die

Die like stars

Die so dark

Dark with despair

Dark falls over

Over my love

Over my spell

Spell is broken

Spell went wrong

Wrong was financed

Wrong plus tax

Tax my patience

Tax my effort

Effort so earnest

Effort was wasted

Wasted rough drafts

Wasted tears

Tears that choke

Tears that stain

Stain the memory

Stain the sheets

Sheets can strangle

Sheets that cover

Cover with soil

Cover a grave

Grave of love

Grave that's haunted

Haunted

Love

Im running out of time. To write for you, to express for you. To create art in the shades of your breath and expression.

I am consistent nervousness; constantly unsure within my own footing.

I swallow against the rising bile like a tide in my stomach as I write, and write, and starve and lose all sensibility in trying to fill every gap with you, you, you.

And you? Oh, you do not recognize me I am sure. I am depraved. Monstrous.

My stomach aches, twists, knots when I am alone and solitary in the drowning feeling of raw emotion.

When I am awake, it’s dry and chapped like a beached animal on hot sand. It burns, and I cannot wet it. I cannot whet it.

I write, and write and write to stave you off like a disease, but it festers and I know it shall consume me.

Every word is another injection when I should be withdrawing. But I cannot withdraw from you. Not until my--

Time's up.

I'm tired of thinking outside the box. I like getting boxed in.

I'm tired of giving it my all. I like to keep some of it.

I'm tired of all I said being done. After, it's not, is it really?

I'm tired of the crow and the way it flies. I don't want to go that way.

I'm tired of being sick and tired. I just want to be sick.

I'm tired of the one or the other. I'm just another.

I'm tired of cautious optimism. I want to be recklessly pessimistic.

I'm tired of an abundance of caution. I don't have much left.

I'm tired of being a free spirit. I've captured my spirit.

I'm tired of going all the way. I want to stop some of the way.

I'm tired of the fairer sex. Neither is fair.

I'm tired of free and easy, because easy is never free.

I'm tired of the end of the day. At that time, I just want to get past midnight.

I'm tired of the bottom line, because the bottom line isn't.

I'm tired of sticking it out. I'm much too careful with what I stick out.

I'm tired of loving and leaving. I want to stick around.

I'm tired of sticking 'round, because it always involves π in some way.

I'm tired of pie, because it isn't easy as.

I'm tired of cake, because it's not a piece of.

(I'm tired of halving my cake and eating it, two.)

I'm tired of spunk, because I don't got it and don't need it.

I'm tired of can't missing it, because I always am.

I'm tired of me and you. Just you will do.

I crack my beer and inhale its spray. It smells sort of like worn leaves, and-- I grimace, shiver and gag-- tastes like sour boot polish.

My elder brother grins impishly at me, tilting his pint in cheers. "Don't like the taste, huh?"

I swallow another mouthful. Its burning in my throat as i shake my head fervently in lieu of response, else I puke.

He cackles, taking a swig of his glass. "Come on, man, mom made you of stronger stuff!"

"Guess I take after dad," I reply once the taste is diluted to dirt in my mouth. I grab a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the table, and savour the abundance of salt with my eyes shut contentedly.

The music is vibrant, and the atmosphere clings to my conservative outfit I had chose in discomfort at the prospect of hanging out with my sibling five years my senior, despite there fact its far too hot for long sleeves and I feel my flat-ironed hair curl at the nape from the humidity.

It is the first time we've had fun alone since we were little kids. The last time I willingly hung out with my brother, we had Rescue Heroes and Barbie battles splayed across our carpeted basement, stained with youth and my tears as he knocks my dream house over with his Buster dog toy.

I asked him on a whim, drunk and nostalgic among my intoxicatingly joyous friends to grab drinks to which he soberly agreed to. It's tentative, and a little awkward after a decade. But as I open my eyes, I notice the foam of his pint clinging to his moustache and offer a uneven half-smile. (To me, that is worth more than a fully practiced one.)

He takes notice-- I didn't expect it, but he does, and he grins broadly. It sort of feels like a father making a face just for you to laugh when you're having a tantrum. Like he purposefully asked for a bad pour just for the foam, just for this.

I ball a napkin up and chuck it at his face in thanks.

"You got mom's facial hair." I say warmly, breaking into a laugh as he chucks the napkin ball over his shoulder and hits a patron that looks around in confusion.

My mother jokes the same of herself with us. It's common ground, and we are not being mean. Hitting strangers with pranks is new, but my brother offer a sheepish grin and settles though I laugh, and laugh and laugh.

He blinks at me with that boyish smile forming that screams blue collar momma's boy. I always wondered why my grandma preferred him. I think now, it's just him as he is. The local everyone knew, the guy who jokingly told his kids to cut their leg off if they got a scrape. Someone who brought their mother flowers, and walked their little sister down the aisle.

It's a split second of silence before he's darting over the bar top to grab at my drink. He's faster then I can react, and swallows half of it while I just sit disgruntled. It's no use trying. I know I'll try and successfully steal a twenty from his wallet before we leave, anyway.

He used to do with the beer the same with my coca-cola at my pizza parties. Theres just less crying, now.

(Mine. He'll be puking up tears despite his assurance he's a good role model.

And like this-- stupid and young, he is the best I could ever imagine.)

I feel drunk in my body, but my mind is pin-point sharp, regrettably. Perhaps that is how I know I miss you. When my body is heavy, and lazy and unable to move, but my mind is ever moving. Ever changing. Ever missing you.

I think I’m getting to know my ceiling strangely well. More than I knew you, even. I see it far more often.

It’s white— but pale blue beneath my lights. My throat hurts swallowing and staring at it so much, but forcing my head away hurts. Not worse than the emotion welling within me. Do I say if? It doesn’t much matter. It will never matter.

My feet are crossed. Imagination filled with picket fences and a kind neighbourhood. My heart hurts. Do you even think of me?

You’re cruel in how beautiful you are. Your voice is a siren’s song, your looks that of a Greek goddess. But I’m not sure you see me as anything more than I am. Nothing ethereal; or for paintings nor stories. My skin smells like regret and exhaustion. But how do I sleep when I am swathed in discomfort? I should be used to it. When am I ever bathe in something soft, something so intense it’s suffocating in its own right but not drowning?

Oh, love.

How I would love to stop thinking.

I suppose I shall stare, drunk and babbling like a good for nothing fool.

I fret that all the possible songs have been written already.

I fret that all the possible rhymes have been found already.

I fret that all that can be played has been heard already.

I fret because I sit alone, untuned, unstrummed, with threadbare strings.

I fret that all possible life has been lived already.

I fret that all the possible mates have partnered already.

I fret that all there is has become obsolete already.

I fret because I am alone, marooned, unsung, on box springs.

Perhaps there are rhymes out there unspoken.

And songs still unwritten.

And performances yet need to be heard.

Perhaps I need to shut up and listen.

***

[FROM THE ARTIST FORMERLY KNOWN AS DR. SEMICOLON]

Following the guard's directions out of intake, I make my way outside and towards the large, brick building across the yard. My cheeks still burn from the humiliation of my recent strip search and the impersonal and accusatory questioning I encountered. I feel judged all over again, though I'm not sure if it's because I don’t belong to a gang, or because I have no tattoos or substance abuse history to report. I guess I'm not the "typical" prisoner. I suppose that should make me feel good about myself, but instead I feel like an anomaly.

As I cross the yard, I see other men jogging, doing pull-ups and push-ups, and congregating in clearly divided racial groups. I've already been warned by prison staff to avoid certain areas of the yard, and I can't help but sneak glances in those directions. I also notice the line of men gathered by the antiquated telephones, waiting for their turn to call home. I've been told the phone rates are high, and I soon find out that everything costs more in prison.

It will later shock me that a total institution run by a supposedly democratic government should support monopolies in prison industries. After all, the same government regulates and penalizes monopolies on Wall Street. For now, I begin to worry about the financial cost of my incarceration on my family, beyond my inability to provide for their needs. Now, I'm in a system that will cause me to be a drain on their limited resources.

Finally, I enter my assigned housing unit. I carry my bag of linens (sheets, pillow cases, and blankets) to the desk to check in with the unit officer. I stand at the desk for several minutes before the clearly bored guard looks up and gives me his attention.

"Who are you?" he asks accusingly, as if I haven't been sent to his unit.

I tell him my name, and after consulting a paper on the desk he points to the right.

"Third gallery, cell 52, top bunk. Up those stairs. Don't hang out in front of other cells. No passing anything to other cells. Yard times and chow times are posted on the bulletin board over there. Be ready when your door breaks. If you miss your door you miss your chance. If you have questions, consult the bulletin board. Don't ask me any question that can be answered there. I hate answering questions I don't have to."

He glares at me as if I ought to be gone already. I have a list of questions in my mind, but his glare makes me hesitate.

"Thank you," I mumble, wanting to say more but thinking better of it.

I trudge upstairs with my linens, wondering when I'll get the rest of my clothing assignments, when I'll be able to take a shower, how soon I can order hygiene necessities, what the commissary prices are, how to even order commissary, how I make phone calls, and a host of other questions. I decide to scope out my situation before asking questions, and I figure I'll find other prisoners to answer most of my unknowns.

Careful to avoid looking in other cells as I pass, I use my peripheral vision to locate the numbers on the cell doors. I'm overwhelmed by the cacophony of prison noise permeating the housing unit and distracted by the activity of prisoners bustling about the unit. I hear a few cat calls and whistles, complete with "Fresh meat!" hollered out by a few, but I avoid looking around to see if I'm the object of their lecherous shouts.

When I finally locate my cell, I look through the window and see someone lying on the bottom bunk watching TV. I stand by the door until the guard at the end of the gallery breaks the door so I can enter it. I step tentatively into the cell as my new bunkie looks up with an indifferent glance. He looks back at his TV without a word. Oh, this will be fun, I think. Shutting the door behind me, I'm surprised by the instant muffling of prison noise.

"What's up?" I venture carefully. "I guess I'm your new bunkie. Is this my locker?" I gesture towards the clearly empty locker, knowing I just asked a stupid question but not wanting to step on toes.

My bunkie swings his feet over the edge of the bed, resigning himself to introducing the new guy to his cell.

"Yes, that's your locker. When you have stuff you want to lock up, you can buy a lock from commissary. I'm not a thief though, and I don't tolerate thieves, so don't touch my shit. I don't lock up my own shit in the cell." He glares at me like I've already been scoping out his coffee and ramen noodles.

"If you have to shit, do it when I'm not in the cell. You can do it at yard times, or chow times, or when I'm at work. When you use the sink, clean up after yourself. I'm not your mother and won't clean up after you. We clean the room every other day, including sweeping and mopping. Keep your shit organized so it doesn't draw the attention of the police."

He continues, "Is this your first time down?"

I nod in the affirmative. "Yep, first and last, I hope."

My new bunkie snuffs his nose like he knows better. "Look, I'm not going to babysit you, but don't bring any heat to the room. If you have beefs, handle them out there. This feels like a dumb question, but are you affiliated?"

I groan inwardly, feeling like I'm being interrogated all over again. "No," I reply. "I'm solo."

He looks down and shakes his head. "Me too, but I've been doing this for a while. Just stay away from gang shit, and don't get conned into anything stupid. If it feels questionable to you, don't do it. Ask me if you have questions about something. I can advise you, but you'll do whatever you decide to do. I'm not going to bail you out. If you've got money on the outside, don't tell people. Don't buy too much too soon or people will notice."

I can tell there's going to be a lot to learn about prison life, and I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed. I have so many questions about basic things like phone usage and commissary orders, but I don't want to bug my new bunkie.

He stands up from his bunk and moves towards the door. "Go ahead and make your bed. I'll wait for you. I don't wanna have your shit in my face. And by the way, don't hang your feet over the bunk. I don't want your feet in my face either."

There seems to be a lot to remember, dos and don'ts, but I just focus on the task at hand and start making my bed.

I quickly finish, thank him, and climb into my rack after kicking off my shoes. I had noticed my bunkie's shoes neatly arranged under his bunk, so I slide mine in neatly under the opposite side under his bunk. My new roommate climbs back into his bunk, presumably to resume watching the television show that had his attention before I diverted it.

I lay back on my pillow staring up at the ceiling, my stomach growling quietly because I'd only eaten a sack lunch on the ride to the prison. I notice the graffiti on the walls and ceiling, some barely muted by a thin layer of cheap paint. I see a lot of what I assume are gang symbols, penises, and the word "bitch" scratched in various handwriting. What a legacy to leave behind, I think. Signs of ignorance and destruction.

Our solid window, barely eight inches wide, looks out behind the housing unit. I notice there are two parallel rows of concertina wire topped fences surrounding the prison. The space between is packed with huge bundles of the razor wire, doubly ensuring there is no escape. I wonder if anyone has tried what looks like an impossible feat. For a moment, I imagine the gruesome results.

After a while, I hear a loudspeaker announce "Five minutes to count. Catch your doors." I wonder if he means us, but my bunkie doesn't move. A minute or two later, the clanging of shutting doors is punctuated by an eerie silence that follows. The overhead light turns on, even though it's still bright outside, and the loudspeaker crackles to life again. "Count time. On your bunks. Be visible to staff."

I sigh quietly, turn on my side, close my eyes and try to shut out my new reality for a few minutes. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? I think with despair. Is this really my life for the next few years? I start feeling sorry for myself, and as I think about all that I've lost and all the people I've disappointed, I feel tears begin to push their way to the corner of my eyes.

Toughen up! I tell myself. Don't show weakness! Crying is weak. You've got to survive this hell hole. I pep-talk myself silently, sucking back the tears and pushing down all the emotion that longs for escape. It's crazy, I think. I have to imprison my emotions because I'm in prison. I'll have to process my grief, my shame, my losses some other time. Right now, my job is to make it to tomorrow alive.

The emotional exhaustion catches up to me, overcoming my worry that my bunkie could murder me in my sleep. He doesn't seem like a killer, but you never know. I drift off to sleep, the raw pain of loneliness enveloping me like a blanket. I don't know how long I sleep, but I am soon awakened to the sound of the doors popping open and my bunkie calling out to me.

"It's chow time. If you're going, you better get moving. Pull the door shut behind you."

I watch him walk out the door as I scramble down from the bunk and quickly put on my shoes. I still want to shower and call home, but for now I know I better go eat or I'll be hungry all night. I slip through the door and shut it behind me, merging into the herd of men making their way towards the stairs.

Keeping my eyes down, I can feel all the other guys staring at me as I walk with the crowd. For now, I know, I'm an unknown quantity to them, but soon enough, I'll know some of them, and some of them will know me. Soon enough, I'll be one of them, watching the new guys walk through the door with their own looks of bewilderment and fear. Soon enough, I'll feel like a veteran instead of a fish.

After dinner, I finally get to shower. I don’t yet have slides so I have to bathe in my dirty socks. I’m going to have nightmares about the foot fungus growing in this place. I brush my teeth with a cheap indigent toothbrush and barely effective toothpaste before climbing back into my bunk for an early bedtime. I can't wait to purchase some necessities and settle into a routine. It’ll make me feel more human than I do right now.

Over the next couple of years, I'll need to figure out how to make a life in prison without making prison my life. When I walk out of these walls, I am never coming back. This is just the first day of my long journey home.

Dear Deep and Dreamy Minds:

Just a fast one here. Was about to head out the door early, but four bits of brilliance binded me in-studio, and I had to read them to break free, much like how a song is stuck in your head until you play it to get it gone. In this case, they were like four really good songs. Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yn6d1q9UY9g

And...

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

What does dating a mortician, roadkill shoutouts, Shakespeare, tons of talent new to the site and our resident legends, a bad haircut, and over the counter flu meds have in common? The answer needs to be, "Nothing," but in today's video, each of those elements, and a few more, collide into each haiku in our last Challenge of the Week being read, after introducing the new Challenge of the Month, with a bit of pizzazz on this one.

Here's that link.

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14207

And here's the link to the video on The Prose. Channel. I know for sure I dropped or misread a few words or usernames, but show mercy, if you would. I'll tag some of the writers in the comments, and a few writers new to Prose.

And, to them, from us: Big family home here. Pick a room, and walk downstairs for the feast, whenever you feel like it. Welcome home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FIElCwRN3Y

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team