Like An Animal

Behind the smooth texture
Of my eyes, way inside me,
A part of me has died:
I move my bloody fingernails
Across it, hard as a blackboard,
Run my fingers along it,
The chalk white scars
That say I AM SCARED,
Scared of what might become
Of me, the real me,
Behind these prison walls.

by Jimmy Santiago Baca

Comments (13)

A great philosophical poem nicely executed.
Our real self is caged inside our mind. Nice poem indeed. Thanks for sharing.
The real me! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
jimmy is an albuquerque, new mexico resident as i am. i've met him, read him, and know something of his story. the prison walls in this poem are probably literal—that's part of his story—as well, perhaps, as figurative. i don't have anything much to parallel his prison experience, and yet this poem strikes me with blunt force. i think again that baca is a natural poet—poetry just seems to flow right from him. -gk
Scared of what might become Of me, the real me, ...very fine poem searching for the Real I and what can become of it.. thank u. tony
See More