fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about what makes a good poem and the poetry rules that were made to be broken.
"Steel Bars and Stanzas"
Daryl Monroe was 28 when he was sentenced to 17 years for armed robbery. Born and raised in the rougher edges of Detroit, Daryl never had much of a chance to explore the softer side of himself. Poetry, to him, was something that belonged to school textbooks and soft-spoken professors—not young men dodging sirens and hustling to survive. His mother died when he was 14, and his father had vanished long before that. The streets had taken care of him, in their own ruthless way. Daryl had always been good with words, a fast talker who could sell just about anything. Unfortunately, what he sold most often were stolen electronics and fake IDs. In 2020, after a botched gas station robbery left a clerk injured, Daryl was arrested and sent to Michigan State Prison. At first, he carried himself with the toughness expected inside: guarded, cold, never showing weakness. But prison is long, and solitude wears you down. After a few months in solitary confinement for fighting, something broke open inside him. He started scribbling thoughts on napkins, margins of newspapers, and eventually notebooks handed out by the prison counselor. What began as rage-filled rants became something more lyrical, more raw—more honest. He didn’t even realize it was poetry until another inmate named Terrance, doing time for drug charges, read a few lines over Daryl’s shoulder during meal time. “You ever read Langston Hughes?” Terrance asked. “Nah,” Daryl muttered. “He a rapper?” Terrance chuckled. “Not exactly. You write like him, though. You got rhythm in your pain.” After that, the two started meeting in the prison library, swapping poetry books and dissecting verses like college students. The prison librarian, Ms. Avery, took notice and started encouraging Daryl to write more seriously. She suggested he submit a poem to a literary magazine that published writing from inmates. Daryl was skeptical. Who would want to read poems from a convict? But one night, he wrote something he couldn’t stop re-reading—a poem about the sound of the prison doors slamming shut, how it reminded him of his mother closing kitchen cabinets when she was upset. He titled it “Steel Lullaby”. Ms. Avery helped him submit it to Cell Block Voices, a quarterly literary journal based in Chicago. He didn’t tell anyone, not even Terrance. He figured it would get tossed in the trash. Two months later, he got a letter: the poem had been accepted. It was a small publication—just a few hundred copies mailed to subscribers, academics, and prison advocacy groups. But for Daryl, it was everything. His name, printed in ink. His words, read by people he’d never met. That publication sparked something deep. He began writing constantly—on the backs of commissary receipts, paper towels, legal pads. Ms. Avery connected him to PEN America’s Prison Writing Program. Daryl submitted five more poems and won an Honorable Mention. Then, something bigger happened. A professor at Wayne State University who read his work in Cell Block Voices reached out. Dr. Eliza Mayfield taught creative writing and was working on an anthology of prison poetry. She wanted to include Daryl. Over the next year, she mentored him by mail, sending him feedback, literature, and encouragement. Through her, he connected with a publisher interested in compiling a book of his poems. By 2024, Daryl had a manuscript titled "Concrete Garden." It was filled with poetry about confinement, masculinity, race, and redemption. The publisher, Small Candle Press, specialized in unheard voices. The book came out in early 2025. It didn’t sell thousands. But it made a quiet impact. A few local bookstores carried it. Professors used it in classrooms. Daryl even did a remote reading via a prison-authorized Zoom session—his voice shaky at first, but steady by the final stanza. His fellow inmates began to respect him not for how tough he was, but for how honest he could be. One inmate told him that reading his poem about fatherhood made him cry for the first time in ten years. Daryl still had years left on his sentence, but everything felt different. He wasn’t just inmate #442819 anymore. He was a poet. He had readers. He had a future. When asked once in an interview what poetry gave him that prison couldn’t take away, he said: “It gave me a name that I chose for myself.”
By Faizan Khanabout a year ago in Poets
Is Every Goodbye a New Hello?
I've always believed that the beginning and end of a relationship between people should be marked by a ceremony—a romantic start when falling in love, and a proper farewell when breaking up. Later, I discovered that most relationships between people begin inexplicably and end without any warning.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharingabout a year ago in Poets
A Week of Poetry, Pressure, and Pennies
I never realized how fast bills could pile up — until I bought a car. We barely drive it. Both my partner and I work from home, and the longest it’s moved recently is from one side of the street to the other for street cleaning. And yet, the expenses? Endless. It’s like the car just sits there radiating financial stress. Insurance, maintenance, registration, mystery fees that sound made up — they all add up, and quickly. Lately, it feels like everything is piling up. Not just bills, but life. You know the kind of heavy mental clutter: work tasks, home errands, texts you forgot to respond to, and that creeping feeling that you’re always behind on something. It leaves very little brain-space for creativity, which sucks, especially when you're trying to be a writer. You ever notice how writing flows like a river when you're doing it just for yourself? But the second you sit down with a purpose — a deadline, a target word count, or (god forbid) the hope of earning a few cents online — everything freezes up. Inspiration vanishes. Words turn into cement blocks. Yeah, that’s me right now. I’ve got two articles in progress, and I keep staring at them like they’re in a different language. The motivation has just... evaporated. Has this been happening for the last three months? Yep. Do I go through this every year and forget about it? Also yes. Then, yesterday, my good writing pal James U. Rizzi dropped into my DMs with a gift from the poetic heavens — some prompts he picked up from a “Poetry Walk” he attended. First of all: Poetry Walk?? That’s a thing? That’s so cool. I wish I could've joined, but he lives in another country and, well, international travel isn’t exactly in the budget right now. Thanks, gas prices. Anyway, he shared a prompt with me. We decided to do a timed speed-write. Ten minutes on the clock. Go. I finished in eight. And not to brag (okay, maybe a little), but it felt good to write like that — fast, messy, instinctual. That’s my favorite kind of writing: no drafts, no overthinking, just pure word vomit. I can’t stand the slow perfectionist process of editing. I want to write like I eat popcorn during a binge-watch session: quick and fully immersed. That one little poetry session — let’s call it a spit session (gross, but also accurate) — reminded me why I love writing in the first place. It’s not about being perfect. It’s about doing it. So now I’m thinking, maybe that’s the vibe I need this week. A little poetry every day. Not for money. Not for perfection. Just for momentum. But hey — if a few pennies roll in from it? I’ll take them. Pennies help. Especially right now. Expenses are coming in hot and heavy, and I’m trying to set my family up the best I can. I also started karate again recently (which deserves its own post, if I can ever focus long enough to write it), and surprise: karate gear isn’t cheap. So yeah, if my poetry hustle helps me afford some sparring gloves, I’m not complaining. So, I googled “daily poetry prompts” and landed on a post with 365 of them. One for every day of the year. Today’s caught my attention right away. It's weird. It’s nerdy. It’s emotional in disguise. In short: it’s perfect. June 23 Prompt: “Crystallography of Secrets” Create a scientific study of how secrets form different crystal structures based on their nature. Include classification system and growth conditions. Use geological terminology to describe emotional states. Consider how secrets change under pressure. End with breaking open a fully formed secret crystal. Yes. THIS. This is the weird brain-stretching prompt I didn’t know I needed. So that’s the plan. A week of poems. A week of word-vomit healing. A week of seeing if I can make something beautiful from the burnout. Feel free to join me, read along, or cheer from the sidelines. I could use the accountability — and maybe a few poetic karate kicks to get through it. Let’s see what happens when you stop trying to force the perfect words… and just write.
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Poets
When Life Blocks Your Words, Punch Back with Poetry
Have you ever felt like life just steals your creativity? That’s been me lately. Bills stacking up, endless work calls, family stuff, and somehow, my brain just… shuts down. The words I used to love pouring out now feel stuck, like they’re trapped behind an invisible wall.
By Shafi Ullah Darweshabout a year ago in Poets
