I gave away my freedom
When I chose to do my crime.
I will not commit another
By locking up my mind.

I can choose to grow in here,
Like a mushroom in the dark.
I can turn my tiny cell
Into Shakespeare in the Park.

When I start feeling angry
And frustrated with myself,
I know help is never further
Than the books living on my shelf.

There is no dust up on these tomes
And their number is always changing;
From Langston Hughes to Stephen King,
Their topics are wide ranging.

I do not “escape” inside those words;
Escapees must forever run away.
Instead I visit them in their homes
And listen to all they say.

I am very fond of most of them;
A few tell me naught but lies,
But even the most dishonest ones
Often open up my eyes.

I cry for those who cannot read
And the prison sure won’t teach them.
I wish I knew the perfect way
To see hungry minds and reach them.

Stories hold so many treasures
And a poem can heal your heart.
Words take us down so many paths
And books are where they start.