I found this poem today that I wrote in college. I think I used to be much more cynical.

Prison

They trudge out to the Yard
Wearing the standard-issue uniform,
Forming single file lines to get their designated time of fresh air.
The new ones, the fresh meat,
Cower, fearing the cruelty of the "old pros."
Bells ring, and they all get back in line
As they are herded back through the corridors
And into each of their assigned spaces.
All those admitted wile away the hours
Daydreaming about freedom,
And, finally,
The three o'clock bell rings.
They hand their homework forward
And go home until tomorrow.

The oyster who couldn't be prouder
Of making a pearl out of powder
Feels much better than
He who spit out the sand,
But they'll both end up floating in chowder.