This is the end,
the end of a season
of a time to an era;
the end of all reason.
This is the end of a phase,
so it seems,
and I have see prophetic things
in dreams
of the end of a road
leaving me left or right.
What’s left behind is now far out of sight.
It’s over with. I’m done.
What else is there to say?
It’s prison prison prison prison
every single day.
It’s prison poems and love poems
and prison poems and love poems
and prison poems and drug poems
and criminal and thug poems.
Did I say prison poems?
The end of the beginning
and beginning of the end,
the middle of a cycle
in a vicious trend.
The end of a prison sentence
and the mend of a heart
leaves me crawling through penance
and back to start.
This is it.
I can’t see myself back in the game.
And this is my last poem.
I’m through rackin’ my brain.’
This is the end of all things old
to which be made new,
the end of the world as we know it
after all we’ve been through.
It’s the end of the night
now that here comes the sun.
Just like the click of the cuffs
mean the end of the run.
And I’ve run out of ends
at the end of my rope
like we run out of friends
when we run out of dope.
And I’ve run out of ideas.
There’s nothing new under the sun.
See me when I hit the street
and I’m out from under the gun.
You know that it could be they free me any day,
but it doesn’t matter
cause nobody reads me anyway.
by Chris G.
