Seems like it’s where you’ve been that dictates where you’ll go, but no matter what it is, it will never be what it was, when all you ever had is gone. Sometimes it’s the shortcut that leaves you needing stitched back up again, but whatever it is that helps you hold it all together could one day be what ends up pulling you all apart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Dan Grote was writing poetry long before he submitted to WITS and is the author of We Are All Doing Time. Mr. Grote’s poetry has been widely published and also featured in WITS Newsletter Issue 13. Dan Grote has been polishing his writing skills and also became a certified teacher’s aide while in prison and will soon be going home to the Chicago area where he hopes to connect with support and begin building his new life on the outside. To contact Dan Grote:
Dan Grote #22670-424 United States Penitentiary Canaan P.O. Box 300 Waymart, PA 18472
Today, May 18th, 2026 marks 27 years that I have stood falsely accused of murder. It was a Tuesday, May 18th, 1999 when police converged on my cousin’s home with guns drawn, their helicopter overhead. My last act as a free man was cowering on my knees awaiting a twitchy finger to carry out justice. I was believed to have killed a man in cold blood, no one would question the ethics. I wonder now how a sudden move would have weighed on the scale between justice and mercy. Alleged Killer Dies In A Hail Of Police Bullets; that was news worthy coverage, even I would’ve stayed up to watch that on the evening news. My mother would’ve mourned my mangled body at first, later rejoiced in my memory, and in time she could’ve moved on. Instead, I was sent to Death Row, causing her to mourn for 27 long years while fate decides what to do with me.
I’m never my best self on May 18th, neither my worst, but rather that mood where best and worst collide. I’m somewhere on middle ground where past mistakes live, trying to figure out why I’m still here. I thought I was meant to be a fantastic father, but the likelihood of that happening was slim since fantastic fathers don’t run the streets. Yet that was me, a street runner blazing a trail of hurt people behind me. I wanted to be a loving son, achieving success in life and making his parents proud, but three stints in prison won’t give a mother pride, it gives her cause to pray. I look in the mirror and see the many career choices that are 27 years gone, as nothing is more telling than an unexpected wrinkle, and nothing sadder than the death of a dream. I wonder what is left for me to become in a crumbling world that is my prison cell. I don’t know why I’m still here, but I am hoping to find my purpose somewhere in the rubble.
Hope – what a catchy, overly used word. I’m hoping for a better day. I hope I’ll get to hug my mother again. I hope my grandkids will want to know me. Hope is insubstantial and yet my only shield to fend off the doom of May 18th. It can be magical at times, burdensome at others, but hope is all I’ve got. I came to Death Row riding high on hope, but time proved to be the great minimizer; a hope that has spanned over a quarter century can be taut and ready to snap. I’ve pitted my hope against a lot of let downs and oftentimes came out on top, only to discover that hope is not always the leisure option, but dangerously necessary.
It was a hard lesson to learn, dangerous hope in the face of extremely low odds. Death Row isn’t known for its high turn out rate but rather the number of bodies it puts down. Hope is necessary for spiritual security, albeit it can foster delusions. I had no way of knowing which hope I had until the first execution. It was a defining moment when any delusions I had made their way to the execution chamber. I had to grab hold of some spiritual hope and not let go lest I find myself on Death Watch. It was a hope that was tested time and again with danger lurking around the bend, whether it was my best friend’s suicide, the resentment from my kids, or the Courts denying me justice.
Yes, hope can be joyous and alleviating, but on Death Row, it is not without peril. It’s a potentially fatal yet unapparent danger, like running through the house with scissors hoping the risk is worth the reward. In my case, the run has been 27 years spent waiting on court appeals, and the reward is to make it out alive. The risk, a dutiful executioner coming to seek his due with not scissors, but a poisonous needle. Death Row is an ill fated circumstance, yet the ideal situation where hope is needed most. Hope’s rewarding quality comes at the price of uncertainty; even dangerous hope at the risk of falling is better than no hope at all.
My hope on this day is that the bitter reminder of May 18th is momentary, with a more manageable May 19th to come. My hope gives me recess from the vengefulness in my heart for my accusers and the regrets that won’t let me be. Hope is faith in the face of failure, leaning hard on the possibility that prosperity is never out of reach. It can also cut, scrape, and bruise, but like many wounds, hope will eventually heal. I’m sore in spirit today, but somehow I know my hope will be there to lift me up in the morning. I may sit and sulk, but I won’t surrender; doubt but not dismiss. I may even falter but I won’t fail. I’ll take on this May 18th with pen and paper, Reggae, and isolation, and get through another Death Row day like I’ve done for 27 years. But for now, I think I’ll stay in bed having a conversation with myself while mourning what could’ve been.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s death row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, he was a subject of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions and also as co-host of In the Cellar, a podcast that explores the challenges, tragedies and triumphs of living with a death sentence.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven, and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
DESCRIBE AN EXPERIENCE IN WHICH YOU FELT SUPPORTED BY A FELLOW RESIDENT OR STAFF MEMBER.
ENTRY DETAILS: Only those who live in prison are eligible to participate & we don’t accept anything that has been previously published.
Submission is also permission to edit & post in future WITS projects. Submission is free.
Entries should be 1,000 words or less. Poetry is considered if it is inspired by the prompt.
Submissions can be handwritten.
PRIZES: First Place: $75 | Second Place: $50 | Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: June 30, 2026. Decisions will be posted to the WITS website by approximately August 15, 2026.
MAILING ADDRESS: Walk In Those Shoes, Writing Contest Entry, P.O. Box 70092, Henrico, Virginia 23255
Please share with any writers you know who live in prison. The details of this contest as well as other writing opportunities are included in the Spring 2026 WITS newsletter which can be downloaded and mailed to anyone interested.
I met Bush over two decades ago at a prison in Raiford, Florida. I had just turned thirty and only been in prison a few years. Bush, on the other hand, was over fifty and had been in prison since the early 80’s. He quickly became a mentor, teaching me how to make it through a violent prison system. Simply – he taught me how to act. Bush had already spent over twenty years at Raiford, he was grounded and knew how to stay out of trouble.
I left that prison in 2005 and hadn’t seen Bush in almost twenty years when, by chance, I had to go to a prison hospital to see a medical specialist. While there, I ran into an acquaintance, Harley, who told me Bush was at the hospital. Bush had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was expected to die at any time. The man I had always known to be large, muscular and healthy was virtually on his deathbed.
I asked an officer the following day if I could go upstairs and visit Bush, but my request was denied. I didn’t give up. The next day I snuck down to where the inmate orderlies lived. The orderlies wore white uniforms while everyone else wore blue. I ‘rented’ a uniform.
The following day, during the orderly shift change, I went to the hospital and blended in. Once on the second floor, I found Bush lying in a hospital bed and fighting for his life. He wasn’t easy to recognize at first, housed in a room with six terminally ill men. After someone pointed him out to me, it took all I had in me to keep from crying right then and there.
Bush was awake and looked at me for a minute before he recognized me and smiled. Thinking I worked there, my old friend asked how in the world I’d pulled off getting a position as an orderly. He’d always had a good sense of humor. He smiled even more when I told him that I hadn’t pulled off getting the position, I’d only tricked them into thinking I’d gotten the position.
We chatted for a bit, caught up on our lives. Bush told me about his cancer and the treatments he had gone through to no avail. Then he got very serious and shared with me that he was ready to depart this world, he’d lived long enough in prison. After those words, I had to step away to keep from crying in front of Bush. Prison life can be lonely, no matter how many friends and people we have around us. I couldn’t imagine how lonely one could feel at the end of life in a hospital bed and having no friends or family around to say goodbye to.
I told Bush he wasn’t alone. Along with Harley and others he knew, we would be with him all the way. I told him what he meant to me and others. I visited Bush everyday while I was at the medical prison. I brought snacks from the canteen and anything else he wanted until I had to go back to my prison.
I learned later that Bush died three days after I left. I said a prayer, hoping he never felt alone as he faded from this world to the next. Ever since that experience, I have been trying to get a job as an orderly in a prison infirmary. I never want any of my fellow prisoners to feel they are alone. I want them to know that someone is there and actually cares for them.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Robert King is new to WITS, as well as creative writing. This first piece was written with heart and reflects the humanity, empathy and compassion that we value. I hope to hear from Mr. King again, and he can be contacted at:
Robert King #J04029 Lake Correctional Institution PO Box 23608 Tampa, FL 33623
These two guys just won’t stop talking. Or, more accurately, they won’t stop making noise, because they’re not so much having a conversation as they are making individual statements next to one another that provoke both of them to continue doing so. It’s bad enough being crammed in a narrow chute with thirty other sleepy men waiting to be called to breakfast, but the witless banter is too much, and my stoic patience is fast approaching a breaking point.
“I think it’s french toast. The french toast is good here.”
“Eggs – we haven’t had eggs in a couple days.”
“The syrup’s good here too – real syrupy.”
“They was boiled eggs last time; the whole dining hall smelled like farts.”
“I hope they don’t shake the spoon on the syrup; I like my french toast drowning in it.”
Just before my head explodes, the intercom mercifully squawks chow call. A guard in the booth slaps a button, the doors rattle open, and the herd of us zombie-shuffle toward the cafeteria. Making it out into the cool, early-morning darkness, I beat feet to put some distance between me and the rambling breakfast twins. Or at least I try to, because for some reason everyone seems to be moving in slow motion, deliberately in my way. I can’t win like this; what should be an easy walk to chow has somehow become a human obstacle course.
I eventually reach the dining hall and grab a tray. They were both wrong: it’s S.O.S. (a watery gravy over two slices of bread that’s about as tasty as it sounds). I get to a table and – of course – find the end seat is taken. I’ll have to squeeze into a middle slot. I do so and, with my elbows jammed into my sides, eat as fast as my T-Rex arms will allow, dump the tray, and head back to the unit.
Ahhhhh. The walk back is at least relaxing. Most of the herd is still eating, leaving no noise or obstacles to deal with on the return trip. It’s just me, the cool air, and – I suddenly notice – the rising sun. I glance up at a sky exploding in color: glowing orange clouds, with wisps of red and yellow, stretched across the entire expanse above me, backed by a bright Carolina blue sky. I stop and stare; my concerns fade away. I remember that this place I’m in is just a tiny piece of a much greater world, that this place – no matter how hard it may try – can’t keep me from seeing beauty.
The Russian writer, Dostoevsky, was imprisoned for a short time, the experience having a profound impact on him and his subsequent writing. He once said that ‘humanity will be saved by beauty.’ After twenty-plus years inside a system seemingly designed to obliterate any sense of the beautiful, I believe him.
Most people realize prison is a difficult place to feel human – the concrete, cold steel, and razor wire make it abundantly clear. But prison’s most insidious feature may actually be how quietly its harsh exterior creeps inside you, influencing your thoughts and feelings without you even noticing. It does its work invisibly and effectively, oppressing you to the point that you oppress yourself and others. You soon realize most of your struggle to change in prison becomes the struggle to not be changed by prison.
Fortunately, I’ve found a growing community of people inside and out that recognize and fight the dehumanizing undertow. We intentionally seek beauty in any and all forms: good belly laughs, moments of human connection, a mind-blowing sunrise on an otherwise dreary morning, a short simple essay by a humble or not-so-humble incarcerated writer. Whatever it is, we remind each other, as much as possible, of our shared humanity and of the ineffable mysteries of being alive.
Reminders are vital. It’s all too easy to be swept out to the deep waters of apathy, depression, and hopelessness. Keep seeking moments of beauty in all its forms. Find those moments, cherish them; and most importantly, remind yourself of them over and over and over again. Doing this, if Dostoevsky was onto anything, just might save us.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Geoff Martin graduated from North Carolina’s Field Ministry Program in 2023, earning a bachelor of arts degree that he uses to counsel and mentor his peers. Geoff is also one of 23 co-authors of Beneath Our Number: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. All of his writing for WITS can be found here, and he has also contributed to the N.Y.U. Review of Law & Social Change with his poems Rainy Respite and A Sorry List – Abbreviated. In addition, Geoff has organized a small group focused on exploring self-discovery and personal growth. He has served over two decades of a life without parole sentence, and has chosen to invest his time in positive endeavors.
Geoff welcomes any and all feedback regarding his work. Comments left on this post will be forwarded to him, or you can contact him directly at the below address.
There’s nothing festive about waking up to Christmas on N.C. death row – the magic doesn’t work where there’s misery. In a place where the air holds the irrevocable stench of probable execution, holiday spirit can be rendered a casualty. December 25th, 2025, I began Christmas day sorely contemplating whether to get out of bed. It’s not the most comfortable place, a flattened cot sprawled out on the prison floor, but at least it knows me. I dreaded getting up to face the injustice that has tormented me for over 25 years. It ain’t easy suffering wrongful conviction. But staying in bed posed its own sense of torture – continuously replaying the same question in my head, “Why me?”
Any morning peace to which I’d clung was disrupted by the wake call of the C/O rapping his knuckles on the cell door. If only he’d have greeted us with Merry Christmas, his shouting may have been tolerable, but announcing “Count Time!” at the top of his lungs felt rather intrusive. Still, it was my cue to spring out of bed and start the death row day with my daily abolition. Clean teeth. Rinse face. Get dressed. Damn – red is so not my color. On the mirror was a sticky pad with a calendar that reminded me the day was the 25th. It would be the 25th Christmas I’d spend on death row. I was 25 when I was framed for murder. I’d spent my 25th birthday recovering from near death. Some 25 years later, I’m still dodging the Reaper. I’d heard people say they had a lucky number – but an unlucky number? …ridiculous. Yet the number 25 has not been kind to me, though I was never one for superstition. Maybe I’d close my eyes and hold my breath for 25 seconds to see if my luck would change.
The cell doors opened as the death row men set off briskly with many a one track mind, bidding terse, “Merry Christmas,” and, “Merry Christmas to you too brother,” while determined to be the first served at breakfast. I realized none of them wore their red jumpsuits since the food trays are delivered to us every holiday. Forgetful me – it seemed Thursday was not my lucky day. I peeled off the reds and quickly joined the others as we popped open the Styrofoam lids. Egg whites and peanut butter, minus the bread. Better had it been cookies and milk.
No worries. I was hungry for something other than food anyway, and not a cup in the world could hold my libations. So merry was I with the anticipation of talking with my loved ones that I found my morning moodiness gone. It was 8:36 am when I video visited my mother because those six minutes were all I could stand to wait. She popped up on the screen wishing me a Merry Christmas. My gift to her was in putting up my strongest front. Just seeing my mom reminded me of our Christmas times past when hotty-totties and VCR movies ruled the day. It all came rushing back, those family gatherings at Thanksgiving, birthdays, and Easter, as I reveled with the woman who gave me life. We made the most of our tender moment and pushed on past the unspoken hurt of a mother and son missing one another. We’d had 24 prior Christmases of absence and endurance; somehow we’d make it through 25.
I called up other family and friends, whose love and support put my mood on high. Eventually I’d come crashing back down to death row, but at least now I’d land on hope. I kept the phone calls short, because those mega companies like Securus and Global Tel-link have teamed up with prisons to make the prisoner’s misfortune expensive. Plus, I’d been standing too close to hardened attitudes, sordid prison, and despair – I couldn’t have any of that get on the people I love.
Distractions are essential, though optional, to get through any other prison day, but on Christmas, it’s the biggest gift under the tree – one I anxiously tore into, donned my distraction, and grinned because faking the Christmas spirit means sometimes dressing the part. I chose to play chess first since it’s a serious game. In fact, seriousness is somewhere in the rules. Playing out the analogies of life on a checkered board would give me all the time I needed to work up to a smile. Then it was on to entertainment: sports, rom-coms, and Christmas day parades. If death row wouldn’t permit me any real joy, then I’d relish what it looked like on others. Lunchtime was the highlight of every Christmas day on death row, a time when the State saw fit to serve us roast beef. Mine was cold, dry, and unseasoned, doing nothing to sate my appetite for freedom, so instead I settled for granolas and chips. I’d hoped outdoor rec would boost my holiday delusions, but no amount of basketball and pull ups could deflect the truth. All around me were concrete slabs, concertina wire, fences – hardly the place to exude any manner of spirit.
Night time rolled around, when many of the guys broke out the heartier meals, having saved all week to host a Christmas feast. I, myself, whipped up a fish dish with mackerel, cheese, and Spanish rice – a touch of garlic powder and pepper to make it taste like home. Others prepared cheeseburgers, chili, burritos, and pepperoni pizzas, along with sodas, cookies, candies, and ooh whop cakes. Swapping recipes and sharing grub was as festive as death row would get. During grace, I thanked God that Christmas was almost over.
Back in the cell later that night, I discovered I’d left my gratefulness behind. I never start the day without it. I’d been short-sighted and missing the glory of Christmas with my moping around between highs and lows. No wonder I’d had such a shitty day. In my emotional seesawing, I’d forgotten to be grateful that I was still alive. My loved ones had good health, my case was being fought in the courts, and I was coming into my purpose everyday. Death row had taken so much from me already – I refused to let it take Christmas too, so I climbed up to the window and set my gaze beyond the prison walls. A quick prayer to God for gratefulness was all the gift I would ever need. I then checked my watch at 11:05 am with just enough time to pull out my journal and salvage what little Christmas spirit I could.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Terry Robinson is a long-time WITS writer who writes under the pen name Chanton. He is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and also facilitates a book club on NC’s death row. He has spoken to a Social Work class at VCU regarding the power of writing in self-care, as well as numerous other schools on a variety of topics, including being innocent and in prison.
Terry Robinson’s accomplishments are too numerous to fully list here, but he is currently working on multiple writing projects, contributes to the community he lives in, and is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration and also Inside: Voices from Death Row. Terry was published by JSTOR, with his essay The Turnaround, he was a subject of an article by Waverly McIver regarding parenting from death row, Dads of Death Row, and all of his WITS writing can be found here. In addition, Terry can also be heard here, on Prison Pod Productions and also as co-host of In the Cellar, a podcast that explores the challenges, tragedies and triumphs of living with a death sentence.
Terry has always maintained his innocence, and is serving a sentence of death for a crime he knew nothing about. WITS is very hopeful Terry Robinson’s innocence will be proven, and we look forward to working side-by-side with him.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
His writing can also be followed on Facebook and any messages left there will be forwarded to him.
I grew up being the oddball, labeled a “black sheep.” I used to think the term was racist until I realized there are black sheep of all colors. But any way you color it, all I could come to terms with was that I rarely fit in. Anywhere.
So, I made a decision. Instead of trying to trim my edges to fit everyone else’s box, I became an all around do-what-I-want, nobody-tells-me type. Box the world, don’t box me. On the outside I made it look good, continued to walk like I talked, but on the inside it all felt wrong.
Fast forward a few years, ‘cause that’s really how time flies, I found my way to a place where it was easy to be that way… you know the rest. The state penitentiary was merciless and very unkind to me, a vicious cycle at best. Yet this is the one place that openly received me, though I rightfully earned my ten years in captivity. I made a commitment though – I was not leaving the way I came in.
Time settled as it does, and then the day arrived. My eyes saw the heavens open up, and in my pain and tears, I asked God to help me change. In that moment, I felt relief. As I spoke the name of Jesus that day, comfort filled my heart.
I sensed my brand new start in that moment. As I prayed and smiled, I was reminded that God sent someone before me who was rejected, someone who could help me learn how to live. He set me apart long ago, and only now do I realize I am who and where I’ve always belonged, in the loving arms of the biggest one ever rejected.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Talena Banks is new to the WITS family, and fairly new to creative writing, but you wouldn’t know it. Faith is often overlooked in writing spaces, though it is a source of strength for so many. I hope this writer shares more with us.
Talena Banks can be contacted at: Talena Banks #1177254 4370 Smiley Road Las Vegas, NV 89115
The Fast Break Book Club of NC Death Row ended 2025 reading Colleen Hoover’s Too Late. It was a story of domestic violence, forbidden romance, and impunity for those in power. Too Late was selected by this writer, because after reading Hoover’s Verity, I wanted to see what else she could do.
Gathered around a prison day room table, the Fast Break members discussed their thoughts…
“I liked Too Late. It was an easy read, but the story wasn’t done all that well. Some parts were not that believable and some, the characters lacked common sense. I did like the romance between Sloane and Luke – it was intense. Overall the book was alright; not great.” – Rodney Taylor
“This novel was different than Hoover’s normal writing style. I appreciated her for taking a chance. My favorite character was Luke’s partner, Dalton, because homeboys should have each other’s backs like that. I was disappointed the crux of the story hinged on a simple lie because Sloane seemed too smart to be so easily fooled.” – Resolute
“I started out thinking Too Late might be just as good as Hoover’s Verity, but ultimately it fell short. It was a page turner, but too typical a love story; not a book I would recommend.” – Marcus Mitchell
“Too Late was a good book to read, good enough that I would read something else Collen Hoover. The highlight for me was there weren’t that many characters to keep up with, but I would’ve liked to see the bad guy live. I didn’t get to read Verity but I hear you guys talk about it a lot. Do any of y’all still got that book?” – Darrell Maness
“After Verity, I thought I couldn’t go wrong selecting another Colleen Hoover book… but nope, I guess you can’t judge a book by its author. In Too Late, it set a steady pace and it was intense at moments, but it didn’t deliver the gut wrenching story as advertised. The antagonist, Asa, was not all that believable as a prominent dope dealer who didn’t make one sale throughout the book. And the budding romance between the Sloane and Luke characters was predictable in the end. Still, I admired the finished project that Hoover was able to accomplish as a product of writer’s block. So the book wasn’t a failure, maybe that was my own expectation. Maybe Verity was one of a kind.” – Chanton (Terry Robinson)
“Too Late was an interesting read, and the anticipation was well put together. The build up was consistent; I was just disappointed in the results. No one died until the end. And every time something was about to happen, I just knew Carter was going to save Sloane. It left a lot to be desired and… oh yeah, my favorite character was Asa, don’t ask me why.” – Jeremy Murrell
There it is – the Fast Break Book Club review on Colleen Hoover’s Too Late. The author is still quite the remarkable writer and has had some of her works adapted into movies. Next up for the Fast Break readers is Jeanine Cummins American Dirt. We’ll convene again in February, 2026, with more feedback to come.
“Look to the Lord and his strength; seek his face always.”
Psalm 105:4 (NIV)
Everyone knows small children rely on their parents for necessities, things like food, water, clothes, shelter. But as an adult, I’d forgotten how much needier kids really are until I spent a day with my friend Kevin and his four-year-old son, KJ. When KJ couldn’t open his soda, he brought it to Kevin. After KJ brushed his teeth, he got right in Kevin’s face and grinned for inspection. When we took KJ to the park, I noticed that whether he climbed on the monkey bars, slid down the slide or swayed on a swing, KJ constantly sought Kevin’s gaze – as if for approval. Even when Kevin and I were lost in conversation, KJ would shamelessly run over, get between us, grab Kevin’s face and say, “Daddy! Stop talking to Uncle George and look at me!” Instead of getting irritated, Kevin seemed to actually delight in his son’s incessant need for attention.
Reflecting on that time all these years later, I believe KJ’s dependency on his dad can model how we adults should depend on God, our heavenly Father. Perhaps it’s partly what Jesus meant when he counseled us to ‘become as little children’ (Matthew 18:3). When weak, seek God’s strength. Before making decisions, seek God’s guidance, wisdom and approval. When hurt, anxious, or lonely, we should seek God’s comfort, healing, reassurance. No matter how advanced our age, we should never outgrow our reliance on God – for we will always be his beloved children.
Amen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson is an accomplished writer, poet and artist. He is the author of Interface and Bone Orchard, as well as co-author of Inside: Voices from Death Row and Beneath Our Numbers. He is editor of Compassion and has had speaking engagements on multiple platforms, adding to discussions on the death penalty, faith, the justice system, and various other topics.
George’s writing has been included in The Upper Room, a daily devotional guide, PEN America and various other publications. More recently, George partnered with Kat Brodie, authoring Digging Deep, a book of writing prompts intended to guide readers to self-reflection and growth. Much of George’s work can be found at katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.
George Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131
He can also be contacted via textbehind.com and gettingout.com
Note: This is seventh in a series. We often see innocent individuals get out of prison after decades – but we can never fully appreciate what they go through. And, sadly, not everyone who is innocent gets out. This is a small attempt to touch on the surface of what it is like to be innocent and on death row. How did Terry Robinson end up on death row? Two people physically connected to the crime scene accused Robinson of murder. This most recent entry was not actually obtained from Terry’s journal, but is a brief clip from a conversation that took place In The Cellar.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, is a member of the Board of Directors of WITS, and heads up a book club on NC’s Death Row. He is currently working on a work of fiction, his memoir and co-authoring a project with his In The Cellar co-host, Mumin. Terry is co-author of Beneath Our Numbers: A Collaborative Memoir From Inside Mass Incarceration. He has always maintained his innocence, and WITS will continue to share that innocence.
Terry can be contacted at: Terry Robinson #0349019 Central Prison P.O. Box 247 Phoenix, MD 21131 OR textbehind.com
There is also a Facebook page that is not maintained by Terry, but does share all his work, Terry ‘Duck’ Robinson. Any messages left there for Terry will be forwarded to him.
