Category Archives: Sentenced to Death

Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

I Love You

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I am still your dad, and I love you so,
More today than years ago.
Blame no one else… I am the one,
Forgive me now, for the wrong I’ve done.

So blind I was, I just couldn’t see,
How much you meant to me.
Now the chance I had is gone,
I’m a broken man, choices none.

Each passing night when I should sleep,
I see your faces, for you I weep.
Your trusting smiles of innocent charm,
I hold no more within my arms.

Within the eve of every day,
I bend my knees and heavenly pray.
Heavenly Father, guide them well,
Don’t let them suffer this living hell.

If I could undo the hurt from the past,
I’d give you love, smiles and laughs.
If I had one wish here today,
I’d wish these words for you to say,

“Daddy, I love you…”

Troy J. Clark #999351
Polunsky Unit D.R.
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Texas Death Row Suicide

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I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
I look to my left and right,
I look to my left and right.
I make sure the run is clear,
Before I take this flight.
I’m not crazy, maybe insane,
But I’ll be damned if they stick that needle in my vein.
We pop pills to avoid the last meal,
Like kids eating candy,
The medical pills become handy.
I’m not a scary man,
But a dead man,
You don’t believe me, look at my appeals man.
I shed these tears out of fear man,
So, I pop these pills to forget the van.
Several years I studied the plan,
I know Texas history,
I know the Klan.
I seen Lil Jack get in that van.
I seen Big Buck get in that van.
I seen Thread get in that van.
I seen Smoke get in that van.
I seen Chester get in that van.
I seen Ross get in that van.
I seen Tick get in that van.
I seen Savage get in that van.
I seen Bones get in that van.
I seen Diaz get in that van.
They won’t get me, ‘cause I have a plan.
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
I am not looking for the lethal injection,
No sir, brotha.
I don’t fit that selection,
I’m 6’4” in height,
They know my cell is too tight.
Did you know pressure burst pipes?
I have a camera in my cell playing games of show and tell,
I am not a porno star, so what you looking for?
My walls are closing in, and I can’t sleep at night,
Fighting off demons left and right.
Lord have mercy,
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
I look to the left and right,
I look to the left and right.
The devil in my sight,
I grip and hold tight.
I’m being harassed every day my officer night
I pace the floor at night with a shot of hot coffee,
Trying to find a way to get this date up off me.
Authorities on my brain, and my mind is locked up.
I believe tonight will be my final cup,
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.
Some of you may not take my side,
But I’m trying to avoid that ride.
It’s not about pride, truth be told,
We’re just tired.
I don’t care about a date, I have a plan that can’t wait.
When they find me it will be too late,
Sitting in front of a big dinner eating steak.
I don’t want to kill myself,
I don’t want to kill myself.

The above poem was written by Pete Russell, and shared with me by Travis Runnels.

Pete Russell #999443
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

 

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Rest In Peace

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A friend of mine is leaving today,
I told him goodbye as he went away.
Be strong my friend, tear in my eye,
He showed no fear as they took him to die.

As he walked away, with a smile on his face
He yelled out, “I’m going to a better place.”
I thought to myself as I watched him go,
It’s gotta be better than Texas Death row.

I just heard on the radio they put him to death,
And his last words were, “I can finally rest.”
I feel ya bro, no more pain and misery,
Rest in peace my friend, you’re finally free.

Written by Troy J. Clark, about a friend of his on Texas Death row.   Troy can be contacted at:

Troy J. Clark #999351
Polunsky Unit D.R.
3872 FM 350 South
Livingston, TX 77351

 

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Don’t Cry For Me

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She sits weeping in the front pew wearing a pretty dress.
The ivory casket conceals what remains.
Don’t cry for me, Mama, you did your best.
In the eyes of the gathering is a terrible truth.
The ivory casket conceals what remains.
I am the good that I have done, and the bad.
In the eyes of the gathering is a terrible truth.
Joyous hymns ward off the minions awaiting my soul.
I am the good that I have done, and the bad.
What’s next for a guy like me?
Joyous hymns ward off the minions awaiting my soul.
Tear drops descended for a fallen son.
What’s next for a guy like me?
A long black chariot and a caravan of mourners.
Tear drops descended for a fallen son.
Six feet is plenty deep to bury my regrets.
A long black chariot and a caravan of mourners.
Words spat from Scripture can be swift and deceiving.
Six feet is plenty deep to bury my regrets.
I was meant to be so much more.
Words spat from Scripture can be swift and deceiving.
The portal opens and I am summoned forth.
I was meant to be so much more.
Farewell to all who knew me.
The portal opens and I am summoned forth.
She sits weeping in the front pew wearing a pretty dress.
Farewell to all who knew me.
Don’t cry for me, Mama, you did your best.

© Chanton

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Things I Carry

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Burden is a thing I carry as a consequence of donning the fabric of hardship red each day.  Oh, yes, hardship red is a color. It falls somewhere between credit department red and eternal brimstone red. Hardship red is the mark of cruelty and justifiable death. Its burden is the stigma that comes with those who are systemically unaware that my character is not defined by my circumstances.

Another thing that I carry is loyalty. I carry it to a fault.  I believe that power is vulnerability, and that even the mightiest of men have an Achilles heel.  Mine is the naiveté that everyone views loyalty the same as I.

There is a King James Version Bible that I carry, one given to me by the mother of a friend of mine in 1999. That Bible is my oldest possession and the thing I cherish most. It has been a chariot of hope and comfort throughout a taxing ordeal that can be spiritually depleting.

I carry an appreciation for social proximity and the opportunity to inspire. Evolution is not growth in isolation. Evolution is the necessity to impact one another constructively, as we are all vital building blocks to the future. It’s my fondness for proximity to others that has me strive for social compatibility. I like to think that I make friends easily, but the truth is, I’m not very good at it. The flaw is my hardened demeanor, with shoulders that are tense and eyes that are instinctively suspicious due to the hardship of another color. Proximity to others keeps me aware of my truths. It reminds me of our humanitarian duty to each other to accept people as they are. I’m reminded that it’s our very flaws which give us the strength of individuality and uniqueness.

I carry a liking for fantasy books and soap operas as a means to lose myself. Many would say that those pastimes are lame for a forty-four year old black man to enjoy, but what better alternative is there than fantasizing when my reality is so unkind.

I carry a passion for reggae music and its essentialness to the music genre. Music is a platform of global influences, and it’s the wisdom of roots and culture reggae that is the blue print for unity and world peace.

I carry the ashes of regret for the many bridges I’ve burned. My life today is a looking glass of my present self viewing my past. Maturity is about accountability and correction, yet, when the opportunity for correction is unavailable it can cause daily emotional strain.

But the thing I carry most is my undying devotion to family. I believe that blood ties alone should warrant trust and security. Dr. Martin Luther King once said, “A man who has not found something worth dying for is not fit to live.” I stand here today, on North Carolina’s death row, willing to die for family. And though the sentiment is not always mutual, still, it’s something that I will never regret.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a gifted and thoughtful writer who is currently working on two novels. He lives on Death Row but maintains his innocence. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Full Circle

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I caged a bird once when I was a kid.  I used a small box to build a makeshift trap, equipped with string, a branch, and bread crumbs for bait. Then I crouched down in my shadowy perch and counted off the seconds as I lay in wait, imagining the thrill of victory. Before long a small bird soared into view, landed near the hidden dungeon, and ventured inside. Unable to contain my excitement and anticipation, I yanked the string, and the box slammed shut.

I was so elated to see the trap had actually worked. I sprang towards the prize with little consideration for anything but my own sense of accomplishment. I had outsmarted the opposition and conquered it. I had won.

Initially, the commotion from within the box confirmed the prey was inside, but then everything went silent. I contemplated my next move. Where to keep the bird? What to feed it? It struck me that, more importantly, the bird needed air. So while firmly holding the box with both hands, I lifted it just slightly enough for a crack of sunlight and air to creep through. Nothing happened. I started to doubt if I’d even captured the formidable adversary or if its innate elusiveness had something to do with magic. The curiosity was killing me. I had to know.

I eased the box higher, just enough to peep inside. That’s when the bird saw its chance and made a break for it. It shimmied out the slit, hopped several times, building momentum, then took flight. I stood motionless, disappointed, as I watched my victim escape. I felt duped and deprived, as though the bird was at fault for defying me and not conforming to an outcome I had set. It had stolen the feeling of invincibility from me, and it just didn’t seem fair. I was the greater force at work. My happiness was the only thing relevant.

Today, I was caged by a bird. It sat perched atop the windowsill outside my cell here on death row. At first, I tried paying it no mind, but its looming presence was impossible to ignore. Then I tried shooing it away. Unfazed by my frivolous antics, it refused to budge, instead peering at me here in the box with, seemingly, no consideration or regard for the victim trapped within, its eye stoic, holding no empathy or remorse for the horrible conditions I suffered. I suddenly remembered a time when the roles were reversed.

The day I watched the bird escape and fly away, not once did I consider what an ordeal it must’ve been like for it, how afraid it must’ve been, being swallowed up in the darkness. The loneliness it must’ve felt. Confusion. The hurt and anger of being violated and victimized. And what of the consequences had it never returned to the nest? Would its family miss it? Would there be songs to mourn its absence? Were there young that depended on its safe return for survival?

I have known what it’s like to be the bird outside my window but not the one that I trapped in the box, until now. Today I am that bird, trapped beyond the cruel dark thresholds of North Carolina’s death row. Except here there are no cracks to breath, no slits from which to escape, and the only air to breath holds the aroma of death.

Sometimes I think it’s karma. The encounter with the bird was certainly not the only stain on my moral canvas. I would go on to do many things I regret. Other times I think maybe it was a test. That the bird was sent to metaphorically provide an escape from a gateway of terrible decisions and a path from which there was no return. Maybe the bird was never really trapped at all. Maybe it was me all along. If so, then here I wait – afraid, lonely, and confused, feeling violated and victimized, and desperately hoping for the day when a crack of sunlight will come creeping through.

© Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

NOTE TO READER. Please contact me at kimberleycarter@verizon.net if you saw Terry Robinson at any time of the day or night on May 16, 1999 – or the two individuals who accused Robinson of murder.   No detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful.
Details of Terry Robinson’s case will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/

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Sentenced to Death

Day of Silence

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It is October 18, 2017, and on this day I will not talk.  I cannot talk and have not talked for the entire day.  Silence is my voice, my method of communication.  A way for me to see, know and realize what is going on around me.  It is the day of an execution.

I want to be as one in understanding and knowing today could never be a regular, normal day like tomorrow or the day before this one.  For me, to act in any way like it is, would be insane on my part and ignoring my own situation, that of being confined with a death sentence hanging over my head.  It’s not me today, but the possibility is there that it could be me in the future.  So, it is through the condemned that I see everyone around me living in their cells.

Each day we have a responsibility to realize the reality of our circumstances.  If we come to the point of rationalizing an execution day as normal and just another day, we come into acceptance of this being okay, justifying our own execution or death sentence through embracing an execution day as a day to be normalized.

My silence toward prisoners and guards keeps my mind on the reality that we are all here to be executed.  That should never be forgotten.  Until I’m not in this situation, I can think no other way.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

What Are The Things I See?

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What is the view from inside my cell, what are the things I see?

I see the walls, with their peeling paint and scribbled words left behind by hands that made this cell their home before me.

There are tiny squares that make up the door frame, and I can sometimes try to make out was is happening just beyond my reach.

Standing on top of a stack of books, I can look out the window located just about at the top of the cell. Seeing off into the distance over the razor wire, there are guard towers and buildings inside the prison fencing.

I can look in the stainless steel wall around the sink and toilet combo and see my reflection gaze back at me in its shiny surface.  I look and wonder just how many images and memories are stored in that steel, pictures of faces that have looking into it, staring with their eyes full of different hopes and dreams.

This is my reality, my view of the world as I’ve come to know it over the years, enclosed by four square walls of the dullest white.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Vigil On The Row

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Another domino is falling, to be toppled over by a substance injected into its core, within days to be marked by a grave stone in memory of who it was and what it represented in this lifetime.

For hours it’s a waiting game, defined by the unknown, to live or to die, what will be their fate beyond this day, these minutes, each and every second that passes?

Everyone is holding their breath and wondering with conflicting emotions.  Family members are embracing hope that humanity will come to the forefront, and they will not have to mourn this day.  The victim’s family also wait, but with anticipation and a different kind of hope that is laced with pain, anger and vengeance, wishing for a twisted form of justice that will never bring the closure they seek.

Guards wait with the indifference of those who’ve done this before and, just as factory workers view boxing up goods for shipment, they glance at their watches, waiting for the shift to be over and thinking of going home.  They are blind to the fact that a man’s life will be taken as part of their work shift, it’s become routine.

The clock continues ticking, later and later the day wears on and the sky begins to darken, the stars making an appearance, and the sun finally lays down to rest as darkness descends.  The street lights come on, and still, nothing is decided.  The cruelest part of it all becomes when there starts to form within the heart of the the condemned a false sense of hope that they will survive, they will get a stay of execution.

Even the family begins to hope with the passage of time and no news coming.  For whatever reason could there be such a delay in such a monumental decision?  Everyone gets antsy within their own thoughts that are all based upon what they hope to come out of the situation.

Then the ax drops, all the lights and power of hope are extinguished with the ring of a phone.   The execution is to proceed as planned.  No stay, no last second decision after so many hour of nothingness, and with the finality of a last breath, the leather straps and restraints are buckled and locked on the body of the condemned.

This is the hard core reality of legalized, state sanctioned murder.

 

Travis Runnels, is a published author, who is currently working on his second novel.

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

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Innocent, Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

I’m Still Breathing

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You can cast me in the darkest pit
And turn from it while seething.
And erase me from this very world,
But baby, I’m still breathing.
Does it really make me worthless
And deserving of no love?
‘Cause the strength to overcome your madness
Courses through my blood.
Just like town halls and chow calls
Your antics are meant to weaken.
Just like fish under mountains of troubled waters,
Still, I’m breathing.
Did you think that I would take it
Now you want to unleash your wrath,
‘Cause I’m angry, black, and dysfunctional
The product of your bloodbath.
Do you really mean to demean
My legacy to a lie?
‘Cause I take your punches in the gut
While holding my head high.
You can dub me a gangster, thug, or crook
A hoodlum, or a heathen
And strip from me everything I love
But still, like wine, I’m breathing.
Do you really think that I deserved
The lashings on my back.
‘Cause I made it through your troubled storm
With my soul still intact.
Til the ashes of Mother Earth yields up the voices of my people,
I’m breathing.
Til the day when materialism no longer determines my equal,
I’m breathing.
Til chains, chairs, and chambers are no longer justices’ end and my fellow American can call me brother, regardless of my skin,
I’m still breathing.
When my past sins reinvent themselves as my present day regrets,
I’m breathing.
When the weight of the entire world is riding on my chest,
I’m breathing.
When reason enough for the war to be won
Is just knowing that I’m somebody’s son
And I’m breathing,
I’m breathing,
I’m still breathing.

*This poem was written as an homage to Maya Angelou’s – “Still I Rise”

Chanton ©

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’, and this year he has seen the release of Crimson Letters, Voices From Death Row, in which he was a contributor. He continues to work on his memoirs, as well as a book of fiction. Terry Robinson has always maintained his innocence, and hopes to one day prove that and walk free. Mr. Robinson can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

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