dirty streets
with simple hands
take you places
you never wish to go.
the crime itself
sketchy to say the least,
my mind was a roller-coaster
with no stopping point
and in the midst of the adrenaline
I just had to do it.
I had to keep riding.
a sound of sirens,
cars arrive,
everything hurting my wrists
as they tighten the cuffs really tight
as if I’m some animal.
I get to the office
I’m greeted with smiles and laughter
and distant echoes from behind the scenes.
I guess me throwing my life away is humorous.
with gallant focus he turns the wooden gavel
a sentence is struck,
“this is what you did,
“this is where you go.”
this isn’t justice,
atleast not to me.
there goes the next eight to ten years
of my life, jail or not.
----------------------------------------------
I have been wanting to write a poem like this for a long time now.
The Greenville, South Carolina, resident was arrested six times in three years, each for an episode related to his illness. Instead of receiving treatment, he was thrown in jail. In the rough prison environment and without proper treatment, he ended up with two felony convictions for crimes committed while incarcerated.
Blough managed to find a path to treatment. That makes him one of the lucky ones. Today, mentally ill Americans are disproportionately more likely to be arrested, incarcerated, suffer solitary confinement or rape in prison and commit another crime once released.
