Escape Artist

My
emotional
prison doesn’t
even feel
lived-in.

The bunk
beds are
upturned, Rita
Hayworth’s missin’
a wall where
her backside
used
to be.

Lately,
I’m
kilometers away,
clawing out
a sewer
drain,

and if
you were
me,

kissing shit would be
the high
light in
a fist
fight with 25
to life,
four hundred yards
of drainpipes with
no guiding
light

but brown water,
a sheep led
to freedom’s
slaughter.

My alma
mater’s determined to
hold me back.

I don’t
want to die with
the rats,

so I press on,
into
obscurity.

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3 thoughts on “Escape Artist

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