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About Time is the national newspaper for Australian prisons and detention facilities

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Poetry

Good Seed

By

RM

RM writes from Brisbane Correctional Centre in Queensland.

‘End of the Line’ by Les, 1999, graphite and charcoal on paper, Boom Gate Gallery

The more time I spend in this cell,

The more the devil can control his hell.

Let me be free from all this pain and hate,

But sometimes I just think it too late,

Why does all this pain happen to me?

Can this demon just set me free,

It feels as though my hands are tied,

I think about my babies. Only to break down and cry,

I try over and over, again and again,

Please believe me my honourable friend,

Home sounds so sweet to the heart,

If only shown from the very start,

I only wish for my hands to be freed,

Don’t beat me up about my past.

Coz I truly am a good seed.

The more time I spend in this cell,

The more the devil can control his hell.

Let me be free from all this pain and hate,

But sometimes I just think it too late,

Why does all this pain happen to me?

Can this demon just set me free,

It feels as though my hands are tied,

I think about my babies. Only to break down and cry,

I try over and over, again and again,

Please believe me my honourable friend,

Home sounds so sweet to the heart,

If only shown from the very start,

I only wish for my hands to be freed,

Don’t beat me up about my past.

Coz I truly am a good seed.

This
piece
was originally printed in the
May 2025
edition of About Time.

Lanie's Painting

By Lanie

A painting sent to us by Lanie.

Creative

ISSUE NO. 25

1 MIN READ

Dan’s Drawing

By Dan

A drawing of Stitch from Lilo and Stitch, sent to us by Dan.

Creative

ISSUE NO. 25

1 MIN READ

Self Reflection

By Sofia

Often I try to self-reflect which turns into waves of rings around me. This picture reflects my days in general; life is static, surrounded by waves around.

Creative

ISSUE NO. 25

1 MIN READ

Beyond the Steel Mesh

By Anonymous

The cage stands bold, with its steel-clad mesh. For within its grip, it’s us it holds. Ten foot walls, of cold creme concrete. For outside we muster, like horses in stalls.

Creative

ISSUE NO. 25

2 MIN READ