I am innocent. I did not rob the Pizza Inn restaurant, nor did I shoot and kill its manager, John Rushton. Ronald Bullock and Jesse Hill testified I did – their testimony the nucleus of the returned guilty verdict. I didn’t spend the day planning the robbery with them, nor meet them after it was over – as they told the jury. I didn’t organize their plan. I didn’t participate in it. I wasn’t in the Pizza Inn that night.
None of that happened. But, what does my innocence matter? Where did it get me but a bus ride to prison while shackled both by ankles and spirit to a dread that becomes so unbearable – death is a welcome resolve. How relevant is innocence to time long gone and opportunities forever missed, when your dignity is in a shambles, you’ve been stripped of your identity and you have nothing left to call your own but an Opus number. With no pride left for which to hide behind, to admit wrongdoing would not be so difficult – the hardest thing to do is continue proclaiming my innocence.
For two decades, I have lived the same as those who are guilty. I’ve stomached the same foods, donned the same disgraceful attire and been governed by the same rules. I’ve looked into the eyes of men as they were moments away from being unrighteously done in, while inside my innocence has become a little less significant each day. Capital punishment is not meant to penalize the guilty, but rather to exterminate the worthless while attempting to restore solace to grieving hearts.
Aristotle once said, “We are what we repeatedly do,” and in just a few short years, I will have been a Death Row inmate for longer than I’ve been anything else. So, what then is my innocence but a conscientious self-declaration to get me through the day?
My innocence is a reminder of who I used to be – so that I am not lost to who I have become…
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
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 his accusers, who claimed Robinson was with them for most of the day. Thank you to those who have come forward already. It is not easy for someone falsely accused to ever leave death row – no detail is too small. What may seem irrelevant – is often the most helpful. Details of the trial will be shared at https://walkinthoseshoes.com/category/terry-robinson/
I’ve been on Texas death row since November, 1999, and was first held with the others at the ‘old death row housing’, Ellis One Unit, that provided group recreation, church services, work programs – camaraderie. There was a different vibe then. Sure, men were still being led like sheep to the slaughter in record numbers, and sure, a few were innocent, some wrongly convicted and many guilty, but the deprivation of social and human interaction in all forms was not as glaring then because we were allowed to play four-on-four basketball games outdoors, able to share hugs with one another, able to lean on one another when one had some bad news and needed a shoulder to cry on, and we were able to pray in groups. Some sat around tables playing card games, chess, or just sat in silence watching a movie or sports on ESPN. In no way am I exulting that existence, because I can never be content as long as I am being held in chains. I’m innocent. But the reality of living at Ellis during that time was ‘doable’. Man was not alone.
March, 2000, everything changed, including death row’s location and current housing. From the moment we arrived on Polunsky Unit we were handcuffed and chained, from our ankles to our stomach to our hands by one long chain, and ordered off the heavily armed buses and stripped nude for the whole world to see. That became the moment I knew everything was different.
We were placed in single man cells on sections that held fourteen cells per each of the six sections that encased one of six pods. Gone were work programs, group recreation, church services and all forms of physical contact that we once enjoyed. Morale was so low, it could be sensed within the thickness of the silence. Suicides and suicide attempts spiked that first year. A black, middle-aged inmate from Dallas, Clark, started shouting madly, daily, as if he was Paul Revere, saying things like, “In five years this place will be a place of madness!” Many laughed, thinking him already mad.
Clark and three others would die within the first five-hundred days, from unknown natural causes. They simply dropped dead in their cells. Men as young as 26 and as old as 51 were now remembered as ‘how did they die’. Though many surmised their depressive stress became too much to bear.
As time passed, men started self-mutilating, one cutting his penis off and throwing it out of his cell. Another, so consumed with religious material, set himself on fire. One man stabbed himself in the jugular and made not a sound. Before he bled out, he wrote, ‘I’m innocent’, in his own blood on the wall. The following day, the Courts granted him a stay to look into his claims, to no avail. One man ate his own eye, then ate the other. He said it tasted like chicken. Many hung themselves. A few started eating their own feces. An overwhelming number sought help from the mental health department which provided them with experimental psychiatric drugs that kept them in a nebulous, zombie-like state, in which they slept all day and could not function in a coherent manner. Inmate-friends at Ellis became inmate-enemies on Polunsky. Staff and inmate assaults rose substantially. The ugly reality the aftermath, when loneliness became dictator.
Clark’s prophetic words soon became a beacon to the fact that man crumbles from the starvation of physical interaction.
I’m not exempt from suicidal thoughts, the cancer known as depression swallowing me whole from time-to-time, more often than I care to dwell on. At times I’m consumed with thoughts of dyeing, being murdered, never getting free again and never getting another chance to feel the warm lips of a lover. Will I ever again salivate over the seasonings and texture of a home cooked meal from my mother? Who says insanity is all that bad? My mind does play tricks on me.
I want to be free. My freedom was molested from me with false allegations, and I struggle every moment to exist within these solitary confines, my survival not based on my courage or strength, but on those who write me, encourage me and love me unconditionally. I survive for them.
I do not know what tomorrow will bring. I’m out of appeals and the only step left is to get an execution date. That notion weighs heavily on me, but I have given my friends a promise to continue to be me until my soul is liberated from the manacles of my flesh.
Know this – I love you. Doesn’t matter if you hate me or support me. None of it matters. For without love, we all cease to survive the day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is living on Death Row in Texas. He is out of appeals and has always maintained his innocence. For information on his case, and to support and share his story, follow on Facebook at – Charles Mamou – How Wrongful Convictions Are Made. You can also read all the information specific to his case at Charles Mamou on this site.
Mr. Mamou can be contacted at: Charles Mamou #999333 Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53 3872 South FM 350 Livingston, TX 77351
She was four foot eleven, Italian, And the biggest liar I’ve ever known. She drank Burnett’s Pink Lemonade Vodka And liked to be choked during sex. At sixteen she’d slit her wrists When she found her mother’s body On the kitchen floor. It was blue And as cold as ice, she said. She was liar and a whore Who had no respect for herself, Or anyone else, and hadn’t a Single principle or moral to her name But I loved her, And I miss her A lot. She was only twenty-two When she died. I keep her picture on the wall Of my cell And tell her every morning That I love her. I know if I had been out there That I could have saved her. I also know that if I had been out there I wouldn’t have.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, with the ability to paint a picture and stir emotion with so few words. Although he doesn’t send in his work often, I always look forward to reading his mail. He recently mentioned trying his hand at songwriting, and I have no doubt he will succeed.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Greene P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
I would be lying if I didn’t say part of me fears this may be the end of the world as we know it. We are all in the grip of COVID-19.
I’m currently housed at Gus Harrison Correctional Facility in Adrian, Michigan, and at the time of this writing, there are no positive cases at this facility. However, there have been cases in almost every prison around this area. It’s inevitable for the virus to make its way here. Not only that, on April 7, 2020, the MDOC decided to bring fifty prisoners to this facility who had tested positive for COVID-19 and were supposedly recovering. While the prisoners are in an isolated part of the prison and administrators claim they no longer have the coronavirus, this decision only adds to the anxiety and uncertainty – adds to the fear that comes with this pandemic.
I fear for my life here. I fear our overseers contracting the disease and spreading it to those of us on the inside. Officers are angry the administration brought in once infected prisoners, and I’ve heard that some have said if they were to contract the virus, they were going to give it to us.
I fear losing a loved one.
I fear my underlying illness preventing me from fighting off the virus if I were to contract it.
I fear the impact the coronavirus is having on Black and Brown communities.
My worst fear, though, has always been dying in prison, and now that this disease is in such close proximity to me, I feel I am staring at death. Why would the MDOC bring prisoners who were infected to one of the only prisons that doesn’t have any cases? Since the COVID-19 outbreak there hasn’t been one single case reported in Lenawee County, which is where this facility is located. Yet – as I write these words, I was just informed two prisoners in Level 1 of this prison were put in segregation with temperatures of 104° and men in their cubes have fevers. The inevitable is happening. COVID-19 is closing in on me. I hope my fear of dying in prison doesn’t start closing in on me next.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”
Quentin can be contacted at: Quentin Jones #302373 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 East Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221-3506
Sharing the name of the apartment complex around it, at perhaps a quarter mile long, Coleridge Road rammed straight through the projects. It was the crossbar between two semi-parallel streets that offered alternate routes to similar destinations, though their side roads led to completely different ends. The front one was the busy mainstream people took when speeding to Asheboro’s white or blue collar districts. People motoring on it clearly had somewhere to be, somewhere to go, something to do. It was also a geographical cordon and dangerous to cross – nobody wanted to slow or stop. That intersection saw a lot of accidents. One car attempting to cross it from Coleridge got chopped in half by an SUV.
The rear street was lazier, more meandering and accommodating, but presented dangers of its own. It veined into Asheboro’s darker areas where gunshots and crack pipes left blooming but distinctive scents in the air. Like many of its occupants, even the projects back there went only by a nickname, ‘Low Rent’, which spoke to a key feature of their character. Life itself got cheaper the deeper one went.
Like a giant middle finger flipping up from Coleridge Road into the heart of the complex, Kemp Boulevard looped about 100 yards uphill, past my apartment, where two friends and I stood sweating on a corner sidewalk. We shared a cigarette and peered downhill toward one of the other parking lots to pinpoint the tinny music that had pulled us outside to the curb – a rarely seen ice cream truck. From this distance, the kids resembled roaches as they scampered toward the sugar. Heatwaves shimmered above the asphalt, creating what appeared to be a mirage – an oasis or the birth of a metaphor for hope. Or both.
We wondered how many times it’d visit before somebody robbed it. Then we wondered whether we could trick the vendor into handing us one orange sherbet, one rainbow push-pop, and one Mickey Mouse as we pretended to dig in our pockets for money. It was 1993, hot as hell, and we were twelve and broke.
“They’d probably hand it to you… but not us,” J, the shortest but fastest of us said, meaning – ‘You’re not black’. Puff nodded his agreement, and they both grinned. I knew the look. It teased that I looked soft, innocent – untested.
“Oh, hell, nah! I’ve done more stuff than both of ya’ll!” I cited the fights, the stealing, the broken windows and sliced car tires. I was the most prolific.
“Well, you the one ain’t been to training school,” said Puff, the strongest fighter in our age bracket. He hit the dwindling cigarette.
“Only ‘cause I ain’t got caught like y’all.” The yet was implicit. I felt uneasy. We all knew prison was our inevitable destination. It was a fact of life in the projects, the only life we knew how to live. Around Coleridge, people didn’t dream of being doctors or lawyers or firemen… if they dreamed at all.
We all got quiet. I stubbed the cigarette butt. The ice cream truck turned onto Kemp, getting louder as it chugged up the hill and horseshoed around the bend. It became a big, boxy, yellowish riot of glittery stickers and calliopean music as it stopped in front of us. Suddenly we were jostled by a dozen excited children waving crumpled dollar bills or punching a fistful of loose change at the vendor.
My friends and I glanced at each other; they silently boosted me to attempt a free ice cream, but when I looked up, the vendor locked eyes with me and smiled. After a second he scowled and shook his head hard, as if to warn me, ‘Don’t you fuckin’ try it kid’. So I didn’t.
When he finally slammed and locked the serving window and pulled away from the curb, my friends and I gave chase and hopped onto the rear bumper. We clung to the panel-door seams and jumped up and down to bounce the truck, letting the driver know we were there, letting him feel our presence. Being seen and felt is its own sort of ice cream. It wasn’t slowing before turning back onto Coleridge, so rather than be slung off, we hopped off and hit the ground running. We scooped up rocks and thunked them off the truck’s back, laughing as it squealed its tires to gather speed toward the front street.
Though it soon disappeared, we still heard its discomfiting moon music a few moments more, until even that was gone, leaving a sticky residue in our hearts. Ice cream dreams never lasted long in Coleridge.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice. Not only does Mr. Wilkerson share his writing here, he was also a contributor to Crimson Letters, an eye-opening book released in 2020, sharing the voices of those living on North Carolina’s Death Row.
Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
I had come home late after a long weekend of drinking and wondering the streets. The house was dark. I looked in on you and you were in bed so I went to bed as well. Deep in a dream I could hear the phone ringing on the end table. I didn’t remember there being a phone on the end table. But there was, and it was ringing. With my eyes still shut, I felt around until I found the phone and put it to my ear: “Robby… Robby, is that you?” you asked, in a quick, hushed voice. You sounded far away. “Robby, help me,” you whispered into the phone. I could hear the fear and desperation in your voice. I was confused and scared, I asked you where you were and you said that you didn’t know. You started to cry. I told you to look around you and tell me what you saw. You said that it was dark and you couldn’t see anything. I didn’t understand. I thought to ask you whose phone you were using, but you cut me off, and, all of these years later, I can still hear you say, “I’m so cold…” as your voice fades away. When I awoke it was still dark outside and as I walked down the hall to check on you again, I knew. Your room was pitch black, and I was afraid to turn on the light because I knew that you were there, in the dark, and I didn’t want you to go. I walked over to your bedside and gently touched your face. It was cold. You’d been gone for hours, but were still there. Did you not know that you’d passed? Were you waiting for me to come home? Did you lose your way? Or, is that really all that awaits us? I’ve heard others talk of heaven, hell, bright lights and judgment; of warmth and weightlessness and hovering above your body as your entire life replays itself before you; of deceased loved ones, gathered around, telling you to go back, that there’s still work to be done amongst the living. I hope that these things prove true, for them, but for me, I know in my heart that when I die it’s going to be dark and it’s going to be cold.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, and although we don’t hear from him often, I always look forward to posting his work.
Robert can be reached at: Smart Communications/PADOC Robert McCracken LG8344 Sci-Greene P.O. Box 33028 St. Petersburg, FL 33733
There’s a woman I know who plays Devil’s advocate for me. She’s a skeptic – and I am forever grateful for her perspective. She recently asked, “What would ‘they’ have done differently?” That led to a conversation about a previous post – A Letter To My Thirteen Year Old Self.
Walk In Those Shoes receives those types of letters a lot. Things happen in life, paths take us places and without the insight that comes with decades of living – choices are made that alter lives. I lived through those years and made my share of wrong choices. I got lucky – or blessed. I’ve watched the next generation play with fire. ‘Use’ a little. Carry ‘that’ for protection. Go to that ‘place’ – because they are invincible. Nothing can go wrong. But plans sometimes go awry.
That’s the theme of this writing contest: If you could drop a piece of paper, a message, a letter in the dresser drawer of your younger self – what would it say? I say it all the time – be vulnerable. That may mean writing about your own insecurities.
As always – only those who are incarcerated are
eligible to participate.
We can’t accept anything
that has been previously published.
Submission is free – BUT, even if an entry doesn’t win, we consider entry permission to publish and edit. Sometimes we get so many excellent entries, they can’t all win, but they need to be shared.
Entries
should be 1,000 words or less.
Submissions
can be handwritten.
As done in our previous contests, I will narrow down the entries to the top ten, and then hand them off to individuals to rate the writing with a point system to determine winners.
PRIZES:
First Place: $75 Second Place: $50 Third Place: $25
DEADLINE: May 31, 2020. Decisions will be posted on or before July 10, 2020.
MAILING ADDRESS:
Walk In Those Shoes Writing Contest Entry P.O. Box 70092 Henrico, Virginia 23255
When the officer woke me
at 4:00 a.m. to get ready for the one hour ride to Duane L. Waters Health
Center, I had to mentally prepare myself for what I knew I would see. I’ve been there before, and I knew death would
be there, up close and personal. It’s
not unusual to see a dying prisoner being moved around the facility.
Duane L. Waters Health
Center is the MDOC’s prison hospital, located in Jackson, Michigan. Every prisoner dreads going there – partly because
of the ‘healthcare’ and partly because the building itself reeks of death. It’s also where they house the hospice prisoners. I had to go today for a hearing test for the
loss of hearing in my left ear. I’ve
been dealing with it for almost a year, and today was my day to go to DLW.
As I entered the
building in shackles, the foul smell of human suffering and deterioration immediately
filled my nostrils and the torment of death by incarceration filled my body. After being unshackled by the transporting
officer, I made my way to the crowded waiting area, where I saw a man I have
been serving time with for years walk by.
The sight of him shook me to my core.
All that was left was a shell.
The man I knew had deteriorated, and I could see death practically knocking
on his door. I hadn’t prepared myself to
see someone I knew in such bad shape.
The wait can be lengthy
at DLW, but the sight of the old head in such bad shape made the couple hours
feel like forever. He’s me. I’m serving life without the possibility of
parole. I’m sentenced to die by incarceration. I’m 39, and to most, that’s young. But I’m twenty-one years in on a sentence of
forever, and I can’t help but notice my health deteriorating. I think every prisoner’s worst fear is dying
in prison, but for those of us serving LWOP in Michigan – we will probably die
at DLW.
While I was waiting,
thinking about what I’d just seen, another guy I knew entered the waiting
area. He works in the hospice unit. He told me he recently sat with one of the
old heads I had a lot of love for – as he died.
So, here I am in the wee
hours, reflecting on a day in which I saw my reality – what the final days of
death by incarceration look like. Death
is promised to everyone, and for those of us whose worst fears come true and we
die in this place, it will be alone in a dark prison hospital like the one I
saw today. Over the last six months six
men I have been doing time with died after serving decades in prison.
Today’s trip replays and thoughts run rampant in my mind, preventing sleep as I stare at the concrete walls of my cage. My pain is real – and it gets realer by the second… by the minute… by the hour… by the day… by the week… by the month… by the year…
by the decade.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Quentin Jones is the founder of MYLIFEMATTERSTOO, and is serving Life Without The Possibility Of Parole in Michigan. After two decades in prison, he strives daily to be productive and make a positive impact. “I will be happy if I can simply inspire someone to become a better person. As a society, we need to challenge ourselves to become better people. We need a lot more LOVE and a lot less HATE.”
Quentin can be contacted at: Quentin Jones #302373 Gus Harrison Correctional Facility 2727 East Beecher Street Adrian, MI 49221-3506
“…to remain tight in a bud was more painful than… to blossom.” – Anais Nin
To many, Kenny’s a nobody – which is why he wanted to shine, to prove them wrong.
Would that I could share my light with Kenny, give him another chance
To fit in, to be normal. Since I can’t, I will share Kenny’s light with you,
Break it into wafers.
Death Row, Death Throws…
We slam, we scream, we fling ourselves against prison’s cosmic ennui.
We remember life from before, our memories another spectrum of light.
The texture of some memories never change; these lights refuse to go
Quietly into that goodnight.
Sometimes a soul’s meat-vehicle remains behind long after the light
Has gone. Kenny remembers the moment his light divorced his body,
Remembers when it tore itself free – remembers it half as action sequence,
Half as background requiem for a dream. His bodily
Memory knit together with eye-witness testimony, here tells
You his story, sings you a history, a chorus of blood sung
With words twinkling in air like asterisks. It was preceded
By a blinding flash of light, an insight that had sounded green, As in the moment is ripe, as in… GO.
We all pass with varying degrees of light.
Blossom…
Perhaps the idea began as a flower – it felt like one
At the time. One of those pretty, yellow-faced ones
With white petals. Aster. Or perhaps it started as a small star-
Like flame, a sad blue torch of forked flower in the brain.
A risky idea one might symbolize in writing: *. An asterisk
Indicated omission ((of common sense?)), redaction, doubtful matters.
Portents…
–aster: a pejorative suffix denoting something that imperfectly mimics
The true thing – a bootlegged or knock-off version, for example.
–aster is also a combining form meaning ‘star’, which implies
Anyone can be a star – anyone can shine like the popular guys
Simply by stamping aster onto their chest, by declaring, “Let me
Be light!” like in Genesis.
“dis” is a prefix meaning asunder, part, away or having a negative Reversing force, as in disability. As in disaster, which is an unfavorable
Aspect of a star, emblazoned red, as in: Kenny, the stars do not fucking
Align. As in: Kenny, this will rip your asunder, break you apart, and
Your ‘you’ will go away… but Kenny refused to see this light.
Men were slamming bone-yellow dominoes into stainless steel 4-way tables,
Hollering multiples of five and clattering their bones into position. Like built-in
Bleachers, three blocky 18-inch deep steps cut into the rim of the day-
Room’s brownish-gray concrete floor, leading down to the lower cells.
Playing follow-the-leader exercises, acrobatic men would balance
On the top-step’s ledge, lean out with upsweeping arms – then leap
To grab the tier’s floor, to do pull-ups or show-off by monkeying
Up, once their bodies stopped wobbling. Kenny used to watch them,
Wishing upon those stars…
In Carnations, A
Cautionary Tale…
Slow, fleshy red haloes spread
And overlap like Venn diagrams laid on cement,
Petaling around Kenny’s blank comatose face
As a silken illustration of the relationship
Between grace and ground.
Soundgarden…
Light is such a fickle thing. Kenny had tried to swing for it with a tottering
Leap. There was a split-second grace period. *****:
In linguistics, asterisks mark an utterance that would be censored
By native speakers of the language. Generally a fall
From grace is blackhole – interesting, especially when it’s a superstar.
We anticipate a comeback… but
With us mundane asters, there is no coming back. There
Is just a discordant ** * ***
*** ** *
** ** burst of asterisks that flap in the air
Like Kenny’s arms, or a flood of cusswords at startled bus stop pigeons.
Then silence.
The very air becomes electric with prayer, or JESUS… the name
Itself a form of intercession. Then a meaty thud
And a terrible revelation
Of Kenny’s horror obscurus, his brain a pinkish-gray
Light leaking from Kenny, after aster in brain, after Kenny-aster
On air, after air on bone, after bone on stone. Thunk, crack,
The genesis of a ravaged lack of all it means to be human. A shadow
Grows from a length of gauze wrapped round and round
A star. That was in ’97.
My dawg, his dog…
Every few minutes Kenny’s dementia seems to chase down his recent
History and tear chunks from its ass. I call Kenny my ninja, since
I’m Asian. His cane we call the Cadillac to convert limpin’ to
Pimpin; his wheelchair the Escalade for which I made a cardboard
Vanity plate that dangles from its back – to infuse his disability
With style, luxury, richness. With privilege, with ease. Nowadays
He chuckles and calls himself stuntman stumbles (in his garbled drawl)
Or Stag Lee, a fitting confusion of Bruce Lee, “staggering,” and Stan
Lee the Marvel creator. Shit’s funny, but shit ain’t funny funny.
Dark Matter…
The brain is a self-contained universe made up mostly of star-shaped
Cells: astrocytes, billions and billions of them, crackle with magic energy.
Hidden in blackness, the brain explodes with asterisks of thought.
It is the seat of language, music, motion… personality. A lump
Of grace that will shine until we die, but… sometimes
Stars flicker and wink out, entire galaxies have power outages,
And the wrinkled surface of the deep becomes void: dementia
Steals the self. It would be simpler if one just vanished
The sun – not this gradual decay into the sightless realm where darkness is
awake upon the dark.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He has been writing for some time, and it is a privilege to share his voice here. He has incredible insight and actually advised WITS in certain aspects of our organization, for which we are very grateful. Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at: George T. Wilkerson #0900281 4285 Mail Service Center Raleigh, NC 27699-4285
Born a ghetto child, ‘9th Ward’. Why do I smile? I still have dreams, Owning a house on Miami Beach. I had two close homies back in ’94, But now both are deceased. Look in my eyes, See what I see. Trust me, It’s not pretty. This is raw, reality T.V. Up-close and personal. My sights set On the finish line, But I’m so far behind. I’m damn near outta time. What is life really? Do I have purpose here? I thought I did As a kid Until my first crack sale Down in New Orleans. Being the crack dealer And not the crack fiend Was my ‘Amerikkkan Dream’. Go ahead and laugh! I ain’t mad. But I am mad I grew up without a Dad. I’m sad because Dude ain’t never tried And I’m confused because Dude is still alive. Hell no, I ain’t gonna cry! I’ve been through worse Shot 3 times with a 9. Laid in the hospital bed 6 days Almost dead, IV’s and nose tubes. The first 4 days I didn’t have a clue Who was you. So come on Walk in my shoes for only 1 day. I wish you would. Nah, young Homie, I don’t think you could! Let me tell you Growin’ up in the hood Ain’t all good. Forget about dat shit Your favorite rapper say in his song. For this right here is a REAL LIFE POEM!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Mr. La Caze – A.K.A. PrimeTime – was moved off Death Row not long ago, and he continues to maintain his innocence. His writing feels deeply genuine to this reader, and I hope to see more. Rogers LaCaze can be contacted at: Rogers LaCaze, Sr. #356705 CBB L/L L.S.P. Angola, La. 70712
