Free The Wm3 Poem by Miranda Arocho

I couldn’t see
Past my rapist’s door
In gravity my vision left in speckles

My head was hung low
Like a neck on a noose
But at least I’m not Damien Echols

I spit the grit between my teeth
For apathy I’ve lost before
With my breath signing its woe

My disease professed such lust
In silent bouts of sanity I loose
And it feels like I’m on death row

In the profanity I vent,
My body craves more
In paintings a lemming heckles

I’ve lost my Zen,
By shape of this form
But at least I’m not Damien Echols

I saw him on television
The other day
In the jail cell his senses reside

In the midst of it all,
His supporters have shouted
With what evidence the courts provide

His voice is intelligent
With the undertones of meditation and hope
In the pigment of misery’s freckles

Seems like he’s got more wisdom
Than I’ll ever obtain
I so wish I were Damien Echols