Young Writers Society

I have been in there for countless years,
My mind has been going as if with gears.
Countless nights I’ve lain awake,
My mind trying to formulate an escape.
Seasons gone by, their change unnoticed,
Prisoners gone, skinniest to hugest.

The prison yard was bright and dusty
The sheets and pillows were always so musty.
The walls always held an ice cold dampness,
The floor was dark grey, showing the prison’s glumness.
After three years, I had it all planned,
Outside of the prison there was a wide grassland.

Finally, the expected night had come, a storm rages,
Outside and I reviewed the plan I’ve had for many ages.
I grabbed the flashlight, I’d stolen, under my pillow,
And I pulled out the loose bars from my small window.
I set them quietly on top of my bed, and pulled the bench across to the sill
Over the sill, my sheets flew, while I moved by sheer power of will.
The lightening flashed across the dark night,
The thunder rumbled as if in a fight.
I slid down my sheet, into the grass,
Slippery and wet, and covered with moss.
Into the night, I flew unseen,
The day after, a cell, empty from my brilliant smokescreen.