by Nick Gisburne
They’re forcing us to make these stupid shirts.
We can’t escape. You’ve got to get us out.
They whip us, daily. Help us, please. It hurts,
And nobody can hear us when we shout.
The only piece of paper we could find,
A fragment, from the pocket of a guard,
Is all we have to warn the world, confined
To cold incarceration, walled and barred.
We need you, now. You only have to try.
Tell someone, soon. Tell everyone, today.
We’re victims, but we don’t deserve to die.
You’re reading this, so find us. Find a way.
It’s in the box. It’s going. This is it.
The label says, ‘For prison issue’. Shit.
