I would hate to go to prison. I feel like a prisoner when i trap all my emotions and feelings in and dont let them out my feelings are in prison. Im in a mental prison until i let my feeling and emotions out fully.
Andrew Marshall
It was the eyes, she concluded. The way they shone under the harsh fluorescents, leaking frantic tears as the vile creature desperately curled away from her touch -it was almost enough to make her reconsider what she was about to do. They seemed familiar, unsettlingly so. But then she remembered the tears weren’t real. She saw past the monster’s fake emotions to its faintly glowing eyes and green blood, to the fangs and claws and deadly glint of cunning flicking just beyond its tears. She picked up her scalpel, willing her hand to stop shaking, and began lowering it towards the creature’s chest. But even after the being’s thrashing ceased, she couldn’t help but wonder who was truly the prisoner here.
keeping in the mind what you can’t say. you know it is there, but it is stuck. it is a prisoner. I know what this is like, especially right now. it isn’t great. it is what it is. i hope to be free soon… soon.
Juliette
He loved his family, he truly did. But with everything they’d put him through, both mentally and now physically, it was hard not to think himself a prisoner in his own home.
Asaryn
I clinged at the iron bars, my hands were bitten by the cold coarseness of the metal. I screamed, “Let me out! Don’t take her!” Stone cold eyes looked into me, reflecting a blankness that made me shake.
Maybe it was the stress that got to her, too many restless nights…but even so…
Amid echoes, raspy whimpers across stone floors, came the mother of all floods.
Sounds of desperation and release; it was enough to wake the other blushing nuns.
Sinner, they chided silently, thinking her a prisoner bound to degenerate sensuality.
trapped
no life
i miss my family
where the fuck are my friends?
i hate myself
i regret.
nothing i can do.
but everyone is like that
everyone regrets
nobody can ever
do anything
about it
Dinda
and there he goes, not caring about how i feel, not caring if i’m hurt, not caring about me at all. i knew it was too good to be true. all those promises, strings of words that were just meant to be just words–nothing more. how stupid of me to even believe that it was true love. i’ve made a prisoner of myself, left to rot in the jail of regret.
Shannen
Where has all the time gone. The hand on my watch won’t turn. I’ve been trading in all my smiles for cigarettes and magazine pages to make new tattoos. Now I have memories of TMZ queens and National Geographic monkeys.
At the end of the day, he looked out until he could no longer see the sun. The crows flew over the prison yard. The last few guard drove back home to their families and for him it was night again.
Steve
I feel like a prisoner of my thoughts and I want to be free to fly high above the clouds.
I have never been a prisoner. I know only one person who I am close with has been in jail. he is a good guy who has done some really dumb things. From what I hear, being a prisoner sucks. You wear the same things every day and you do the same things every day. I hope to never be a prisoner.
mandie
Sometime I feel like a prisoner in my own mind. I can’t escape and it kills me! I hate everything so much I dont want to think I just want to drink. Drink all of my problems away
Jane Smith
He stood, looking at the window, his hand on the doorknob, but not yet pulling it open. His other hand fondled the two coins in his pocket. To buy food, or a newspaper to search for a job, he was a prisoner of his own indecision.
tonykeyesjapan
The sea wasn’t so bad for company. It waved at me every day, and offered soothing conversations, though they were hard to hear.
Ann M. Lynn
The prisoner sat in his cell and really contemplated why he was there – it was like one morning he was just sitting in his room over the bookstore and the next, here he was, in orange prisoner’s garb, alone. He wonders if maybe he’ll ever know, or if this is just how life will be from now on: bleak, lonely, gray.
Mary Gael
A prisoner probably lives a better life than I,
for freedom has gotten me nowhere,
but to waste years indulging my dreams.
i am the prisoner to the molasses of your eyes
trapped under each liquid league
i swim deeper between siphoning glances
and lie in the cradle of your gaze
He is screaming for me. Or, at least, that is what it looks like. I cannot hear what is going on on the other side of the mirror. Though it becomes apparent quite soon that he can hear me.
I am pressing my hand against the glass. I cannot bear to see Carlos, perfect, beautiful Carlos, so twisted and crumpled with distress, but I can bear the thought of him as a prisoner in this icy flipped-over cell even less. I smile, at peace with the sacrifice I have made. At peace with the fact that I am going to die, and that it is going to involve a mirror.
It’s funny that I was thinking about what I was going to write about before I even saw the prompt word and as the word appeared the thought came to my mind that I should write for 60 seconds without ever writing the day’s prompt word and now I have nothing to write about the prompt word and it’s making my mind go to jail.
The prisoner placed his cracking feet on the cold hard floor. He pushed his body up from the stiff bed and forced himself towards the cellar door. “Breakfast!” The women on the other side shouted. He pulled the tray through the thin slot and placed it on his small table within his cell.
Laura Strong
He’s watching from the window again. She wonders who he is, dressed in those faded jeans and regulation shirt. He’s not visitor material, but he hasn’t disowned his individuality, and conformed to the eye wrenching blankness. Like all the staff.
” Mr. Greene, you need to return to your room now, Doctor King is on her way for your session.”
He rises from his chair, and bows slightly, to the woman speaking. She watches the two leave, and then her own watcher, a tiny scamp in egg shell grey.
“Who was he?” he murmurs, wide eyed and curious.
“Who was who? Little bird, what were you talking about?”
“That man. He’s in my section, but…He don’t act like anyone else.” the boy seats himself on the arm of the worn sofa. He perches like a bird indeed.
“Mr. Greene, of course. Didn’t you hear?”
“I don’ know,” the boy rubs his growling belly.” Sorry. I’m hungry.”
“Go eat then.”
“They won’t gimme what I need. But… you could?”
“Leave me alone. I taste like soap.” She stands and leaves the boy alone. she knows what he thinks he is, and she wants nothing to do with it. So she rushes back to her room and shuts the door.
The strange man who sits by the window, is released the next day. Little Bird is called a fraud, they throw him in another institution, and his parents are sued by the hospital. And she, she goes into the rec room, and sits by the window. Perhaps she will figure out what he saw.
mae
Behind the curtain, there is a prisoner, I’m sure you know his name. He is so strong and terribly loving that his heart rings true, He’s only a prisoner in the heart inside you.
Prisoner.
Are we prisoners? yes, the question goes for even the ones that are ‘free’. If, so, what are we prisoners of? You could be a prisoner of the lifetyle you chose, of the habits you have, or people around you. Are we prisoners?
I am a prisoner in my own thoughts. I create walls of self-hatred, fear, suffocating anxiety around me, seemingly trapping me with no way out. The walls are quite firm and stable too, being made from the effort of many years. I scream and pound, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be free.
Oh dear a prisoner. I wonder what he did to get thrown inside. I bet you he robbed a bank and made away with lots of cigarettes and money. He obviously got caught and has been thrown in jail. Good Job. I hope he has to pay back all the money he stole and more to the poor shop keeper.
Pip Herron
You’re here for good. I can’t let you go because you’re a prisoner. Remember back when they had white and black striped suits to easily identify you? Well now they have really flamboyant pastel colors to separate you into groups. You earned the right to be a escape artist.
The nights were long and dark, and inside this room with the door locked, I was a prisoner. No one told me why I was here and why the door must remain locked. Each night I hoped and prayed for release, but nothing changed. How long had I been here? How much longer would I be here? Oh, how I longed for answers to my many questions. Sitting in the near darkness, I felt so lonely and afraid.
Sherrey Meyer
The prisoner slouched against the edge of the bed, straw scattered below him. The dim candlelight threw shadows across the cheekbones peeking out above his beard. His eyes stared ahead at the wall.
I was a prisoner to her gaze. We met eyes across the room, she was drinking scotch, and I was stuck. Little did I know that 40 years later, my wife never made me feel that way.
Sloane sighed. She had always felt trapped in Algebra class, but today more than ever. The teacher stood at the head of the classroom, gabbing away as Sloane glanced over the worksheet.
…Intercepts? Formulas, slopes, points… what?
Her parents were right, weren’t they? She was just an idiot. Too stupid to get math. Sloane shoved the paper deep into her binder and began counting down the minutes until she could leave this prison.
Mona
I am a prisoner of my own mind. I cage myself behind bars of doubt and lies. You can’t do this, I say. But I can, and one day I will. I will break free, I will demolish these bars with a hammer of truth and hope. You cannot stop me, I whisper.
He wakes up with the scream still on his lips, but the sound freezes in his lungs. Mouth open, chest straining, and he can hear his panting, hear the harsh wet puffs from his chest but the sound. He yells, on impulse, and feels his throat contract around it, feels his tongue move and teeth clench, and there is no sound. He has no voice, in this fresh hell he has woken to, his arms are bound tight behind him, not as they do back home, but wrenched upwards and in, his forearms nearly flat against his spine side by side and the torque is a dull burn, now that he’s paying attention. Naked, from his toes to his collarbone, and not alone. He shuffles violently back until he comes up against solidity, feet flat to the floor and knees pressed as close to his chest as he can manage, reducing vunerability, threat, where the fuck am i, where is my crew, where!
“…just what you’re looking for, my friend, a new shipment this morning, and the spirit coming off this particular beast even in Dreaming! Perfect, my friend.”
Prisoner is someone that is in jail or locked in a room of there own choose. You can be a prisoner to your self by not trying new things. A prisoner could be someone that has broken the law or just be at the wrong place.
Teresa Parr
rain fell in my hand
ran across heartlines, creases
clouds sang, I sang back
exalted the thunderhead, it’s promise of fury
wet fingers open
as in giving yet receiving
the wind gone
and so all things
very close, just fullness of rain
when you are in it
She rains and rivulets abound
pools then flow
kisses in torrent
a sky heavy in her
on calm days like
pressing against wet grass
with cheek then chest
the sun far off and very small
other days are pushing
fingers deep into wet earth
swallowing yield, sweet give
the scent of secret dawns
I have stood in lashing gales
my skin a drum
my eyes as in fever
looking nowhere but
blessing the birdless, wild sky
as in a horse bolted but fierce
She has carved in rain
a garden
water falls when she speaks
sings, as in being held
closely, to a heart
Prisoner of writing, overcoming writers block. That, my friend, is the point of this website, to provide a creative outlet, moving beyond all restrictions of writing and doing just that,writing. That was most likely a run on even with all the commas but who the hell cares, am right?
Dean Marshall
I was a prisoner of my own mind, telling myself I wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough. The truth was, I was too scared to see my own strength, because if I was strong, that meant I’d have to act like it.
McLean
On an island far away from home I will never see my family again. I wonder if the shit I
go through here is the same shit they’ll talk about when they talk about this rock in the middle of nowhere. A stench emanates from this place that I can only describe as putrid, but it grows on you, the real thing that gets you here is the politics; that’s what really stinks. If I could tell you one thing to help you survive here on “The Rock” is keep to yourself. Well, that’s all I can write there taking me to the execution room, I hope you read this…
I would hate to go to prison. I feel like a prisoner when i trap all my emotions and feelings in and dont let them out my feelings are in prison. Im in a mental prison until i let my feeling and emotions out fully.
It was the eyes, she concluded. The way they shone under the harsh fluorescents, leaking frantic tears as the vile creature desperately curled away from her touch -it was almost enough to make her reconsider what she was about to do. They seemed familiar, unsettlingly so. But then she remembered the tears weren’t real. She saw past the monster’s fake emotions to its faintly glowing eyes and green blood, to the fangs and claws and deadly glint of cunning flicking just beyond its tears. She picked up her scalpel, willing her hand to stop shaking, and began lowering it towards the creature’s chest. But even after the being’s thrashing ceased, she couldn’t help but wonder who was truly the prisoner here.
keeping in the mind what you can’t say. you know it is there, but it is stuck. it is a prisoner. I know what this is like, especially right now. it isn’t great. it is what it is. i hope to be free soon… soon.
He loved his family, he truly did. But with everything they’d put him through, both mentally and now physically, it was hard not to think himself a prisoner in his own home.
I clinged at the iron bars, my hands were bitten by the cold coarseness of the metal. I screamed, “Let me out! Don’t take her!” Stone cold eyes looked into me, reflecting a blankness that made me shake.
Maybe it was the stress that got to her, too many restless nights…but even so…
Amid echoes, raspy whimpers across stone floors, came the mother of all floods.
Sounds of desperation and release; it was enough to wake the other blushing nuns.
Sinner, they chided silently, thinking her a prisoner bound to degenerate sensuality.
trapped
no life
i miss my family
where the fuck are my friends?
i hate myself
i regret.
nothing i can do.
but everyone is like that
everyone regrets
nobody can ever
do anything
about it
and there he goes, not caring about how i feel, not caring if i’m hurt, not caring about me at all. i knew it was too good to be true. all those promises, strings of words that were just meant to be just words–nothing more. how stupid of me to even believe that it was true love. i’ve made a prisoner of myself, left to rot in the jail of regret.
Where has all the time gone. The hand on my watch won’t turn. I’ve been trading in all my smiles for cigarettes and magazine pages to make new tattoos. Now I have memories of TMZ queens and National Geographic monkeys.
At the end of the day, he looked out until he could no longer see the sun. The crows flew over the prison yard. The last few guard drove back home to their families and for him it was night again.
I feel like a prisoner of my thoughts and I want to be free to fly high above the clouds.
He was one of those take-no-prisoner types, always running into things intending to conquer, to come out as the very best.
I have never been a prisoner. I know only one person who I am close with has been in jail. he is a good guy who has done some really dumb things. From what I hear, being a prisoner sucks. You wear the same things every day and you do the same things every day. I hope to never be a prisoner.
Sometime I feel like a prisoner in my own mind. I can’t escape and it kills me! I hate everything so much I dont want to think I just want to drink. Drink all of my problems away
He stood, looking at the window, his hand on the doorknob, but not yet pulling it open. His other hand fondled the two coins in his pocket. To buy food, or a newspaper to search for a job, he was a prisoner of his own indecision.
The sea wasn’t so bad for company. It waved at me every day, and offered soothing conversations, though they were hard to hear.
The prisoner sat in his cell and really contemplated why he was there – it was like one morning he was just sitting in his room over the bookstore and the next, here he was, in orange prisoner’s garb, alone. He wonders if maybe he’ll ever know, or if this is just how life will be from now on: bleak, lonely, gray.
A prisoner probably lives a better life than I,
for freedom has gotten me nowhere,
but to waste years indulging my dreams.
i am the prisoner to the molasses of your eyes
trapped under each liquid league
i swim deeper between siphoning glances
and lie in the cradle of your gaze
/”CECIL!”/
He is screaming for me. Or, at least, that is what it looks like. I cannot hear what is going on on the other side of the mirror. Though it becomes apparent quite soon that he can hear me.
I am pressing my hand against the glass. I cannot bear to see Carlos, perfect, beautiful Carlos, so twisted and crumpled with distress, but I can bear the thought of him as a prisoner in this icy flipped-over cell even less. I smile, at peace with the sacrifice I have made. At peace with the fact that I am going to die, and that it is going to involve a mirror.
Ja. Ja.
It’s funny that I was thinking about what I was going to write about before I even saw the prompt word and as the word appeared the thought came to my mind that I should write for 60 seconds without ever writing the day’s prompt word and now I have nothing to write about the prompt word and it’s making my mind go to jail.
Ding!
The prisoner placed his cracking feet on the cold hard floor. He pushed his body up from the stiff bed and forced himself towards the cellar door. “Breakfast!” The women on the other side shouted. He pulled the tray through the thin slot and placed it on his small table within his cell.
He’s watching from the window again. She wonders who he is, dressed in those faded jeans and regulation shirt. He’s not visitor material, but he hasn’t disowned his individuality, and conformed to the eye wrenching blankness. Like all the staff.
” Mr. Greene, you need to return to your room now, Doctor King is on her way for your session.”
He rises from his chair, and bows slightly, to the woman speaking. She watches the two leave, and then her own watcher, a tiny scamp in egg shell grey.
“Who was he?” he murmurs, wide eyed and curious.
“Who was who? Little bird, what were you talking about?”
“That man. He’s in my section, but…He don’t act like anyone else.” the boy seats himself on the arm of the worn sofa. He perches like a bird indeed.
“Mr. Greene, of course. Didn’t you hear?”
“I don’ know,” the boy rubs his growling belly.” Sorry. I’m hungry.”
“Go eat then.”
“They won’t gimme what I need. But… you could?”
“Leave me alone. I taste like soap.” She stands and leaves the boy alone. she knows what he thinks he is, and she wants nothing to do with it. So she rushes back to her room and shuts the door.
The strange man who sits by the window, is released the next day. Little Bird is called a fraud, they throw him in another institution, and his parents are sued by the hospital. And she, she goes into the rec room, and sits by the window. Perhaps she will figure out what he saw.
Behind the curtain, there is a prisoner, I’m sure you know his name. He is so strong and terribly loving that his heart rings true, He’s only a prisoner in the heart inside you.
Prisoner.
Are we prisoners? yes, the question goes for even the ones that are ‘free’. If, so, what are we prisoners of? You could be a prisoner of the lifetyle you chose, of the habits you have, or people around you. Are we prisoners?
I am a prisoner in my own thoughts. I create walls of self-hatred, fear, suffocating anxiety around me, seemingly trapping me with no way out. The walls are quite firm and stable too, being made from the effort of many years. I scream and pound, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be free.
Oh dear a prisoner. I wonder what he did to get thrown inside. I bet you he robbed a bank and made away with lots of cigarettes and money. He obviously got caught and has been thrown in jail. Good Job. I hope he has to pay back all the money he stole and more to the poor shop keeper.
You’re here for good. I can’t let you go because you’re a prisoner. Remember back when they had white and black striped suits to easily identify you? Well now they have really flamboyant pastel colors to separate you into groups. You earned the right to be a escape artist.
The nights were long and dark, and inside this room with the door locked, I was a prisoner. No one told me why I was here and why the door must remain locked. Each night I hoped and prayed for release, but nothing changed. How long had I been here? How much longer would I be here? Oh, how I longed for answers to my many questions. Sitting in the near darkness, I felt so lonely and afraid.
The prisoner slouched against the edge of the bed, straw scattered below him. The dim candlelight threw shadows across the cheekbones peeking out above his beard. His eyes stared ahead at the wall.
I was a prisoner to her gaze. We met eyes across the room, she was drinking scotch, and I was stuck. Little did I know that 40 years later, my wife never made me feel that way.
Sloane sighed. She had always felt trapped in Algebra class, but today more than ever. The teacher stood at the head of the classroom, gabbing away as Sloane glanced over the worksheet.
…Intercepts? Formulas, slopes, points… what?
Her parents were right, weren’t they? She was just an idiot. Too stupid to get math. Sloane shoved the paper deep into her binder and began counting down the minutes until she could leave this prison.
I am a prisoner of my own mind. I cage myself behind bars of doubt and lies. You can’t do this, I say. But I can, and one day I will. I will break free, I will demolish these bars with a hammer of truth and hope. You cannot stop me, I whisper.
stumbled in a trap
then had to choose to be a
prisoner of lust
He wakes up with the scream still on his lips, but the sound freezes in his lungs. Mouth open, chest straining, and he can hear his panting, hear the harsh wet puffs from his chest but the sound. He yells, on impulse, and feels his throat contract around it, feels his tongue move and teeth clench, and there is no sound. He has no voice, in this fresh hell he has woken to, his arms are bound tight behind him, not as they do back home, but wrenched upwards and in, his forearms nearly flat against his spine side by side and the torque is a dull burn, now that he’s paying attention. Naked, from his toes to his collarbone, and not alone. He shuffles violently back until he comes up against solidity, feet flat to the floor and knees pressed as close to his chest as he can manage, reducing vunerability, threat, where the fuck am i, where is my crew, where!
“…just what you’re looking for, my friend, a new shipment this morning, and the spirit coming off this particular beast even in Dreaming! Perfect, my friend.”
Prisoner is someone that is in jail or locked in a room of there own choose. You can be a prisoner to your self by not trying new things. A prisoner could be someone that has broken the law or just be at the wrong place.
rain fell in my hand
ran across heartlines, creases
clouds sang, I sang back
exalted the thunderhead, it’s promise of fury
wet fingers open
as in giving yet receiving
the wind gone
and so all things
very close, just fullness of rain
when you are in it
She rains and rivulets abound
pools then flow
kisses in torrent
a sky heavy in her
on calm days like
pressing against wet grass
with cheek then chest
the sun far off and very small
other days are pushing
fingers deep into wet earth
swallowing yield, sweet give
the scent of secret dawns
I have stood in lashing gales
my skin a drum
my eyes as in fever
looking nowhere but
blessing the birdless, wild sky
as in a horse bolted but fierce
She has carved in rain
a garden
water falls when she speaks
sings, as in being held
closely, to a heart
Prisoner of writing, overcoming writers block. That, my friend, is the point of this website, to provide a creative outlet, moving beyond all restrictions of writing and doing just that,writing. That was most likely a run on even with all the commas but who the hell cares, am right?
I was a prisoner of my own mind, telling myself I wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough. The truth was, I was too scared to see my own strength, because if I was strong, that meant I’d have to act like it.
On an island far away from home I will never see my family again. I wonder if the shit I
go through here is the same shit they’ll talk about when they talk about this rock in the middle of nowhere. A stench emanates from this place that I can only describe as putrid, but it grows on you, the real thing that gets you here is the politics; that’s what really stinks. If I could tell you one thing to help you survive here on “The Rock” is keep to yourself. Well, that’s all I can write there taking me to the execution room, I hope you read this…