a partially-rhyming-poem by Nigel Withrow, who carved out of interest, a cage for himself.
This cage won't crack, And my begging didn't budge- the guard, I am her hack, She looks at me stupid. I'll have to go the sentence. Then back to wasting away, Andy Dufresne had tons of constance Every night he did his portion,
My zones are in disproportion And everyday I strengthen my notions, Brain wins all the chore-allowance, If exhaustion equates to a house ready for guests. Easy ability to make friends- didn't get better in this jail's shoal. They call me a human-sheep, Bashful Woolly-thinking waste of broken coal
And get that when I say 'they', I mean the endless voices, Open-mic going up in my mind And the topic is 'Nigel's vices'.