A caged bird sings,
And a condemned man writes.
The only freedom to be had
In a tomb, sealed tight.
But no, not airtight,
Just enough to breathe.
See the mugginess that looms
In the dank lonely room?
Shall it bring you constant misery
For the wrong you have done.
Murderer!
You worthless monster!
The same grief you have caused
Should be exacted on your mama.
O’ but it has,
Just not enough.
Heathenish villain
Who deserves no forgiveness,
And for that we’re going to bring
Out the lethal stuff.
Undo what God has done,
Rid fathers of their sons,
As your souls erode in darkness
Till the day of judgment comes.
And when that day comes,
No tears, nor fears,
Nor uprising peers
Will hinder the injustice
Inflicted on you for years,
From way, way back
On the slave man’s back.
We are all black,
And the distinction of skin color
Is fallacy designed by the elitist
As a means to stay in power.
Watching the seconds tick
As it nears the twelfth hour,
Where preparations are made
And sympathy forbade;
Ain’t nothing
Going on here
But the necessary removal
Of a threat to society.
Placaters
Turned player haters,
Never losing an ounce
Of sleep at night
From knowing that death
Is just a business.
Torture chambers need hosts,
Tax payers foot the cost,
With endless sights of vigil lights
As advocates brave the cold,
Chanting, “No more deaths!”
“No more deaths!”
But there will always be deaths
Till by death there’s no one left,
But the supreme man
And him who understands
That classism
Is about one clan.
Not black, or white
Nor those with the will to fight.
And neither the caged bird that sings
Nor the condemned man that writes.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work. He can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

Cruel.   Heartless.   Malicious and cold.  That’s how the prosecutor described me to a jury during his pitch for a verdict of death.  He argued that I was, “…just mean and unfit to live.”  In the end, the jury agreed.

Four months after my arrival on Death Row, I stole money from an officer.  Though inadvertent, it was theft nonetheless.  It happened one morning during weekly ‘draw’, while one officer was training another.  At that time, available funds withdrawn from inmate accounts were counted and stapled together. 

The new guy – or Newbie – handed me a stack of bills in fives and ones meant to total forty dollars.  With no prior incidents or errors, I tucked the bills in my pocket and walked away.  Within moments, a commotion stirred as one inmate started shouting over missing funds.  Others became disgruntled and offered up chide remarks about the unfairness of the system.  The senior officer tried to de-escalate the ruckus, while the new guy searched frantically through the money bag.  I sympathized with the perplexity strewn on Newbie’s face.  It was his first day on the job.

After reassuring compensation, both officers exited the pod, as the ire amongst protesting inmates increased.   With a prickly notion to count the money, I collected the bills from my pocket and discovered it wasn’t one stack, but two.  The staples in each stack had snagged one another and pieced the money together.  I called over the guy to which the funds belonged, explained the mix-up and offered him the money. 

“Keep it,” he said, “Let the State pay for it, since they’re trying to kill us, anyway.”  Tempers flared over systemic oppression, as the other inmates egged each other on.   Reluctantly, I passed the money off to a friend – I was striking a blow to ‘the State’.

Not only was the meager blow ineffective to the State, it was utterly deflected.  I later found out the replacement funds were deducted from Newbie’s salary.  What a terrible feeling to know I was responsible for a mark on his work record.  And by involving another party, I couldn’t return the money, though keeping it cost me peace of mind.

Over the years, Newbie has gone on to become a well respected officer.  With an 18 year tenure of working on Death Row, he has seniority over all other staff.  He’s shown cordialness and consideration when enforcing policy, while effectively performing his duties.   A kind, hard working man, who seldom speaks, but is eager to flash a grin.  As I’ve come to admire his professionalism, I’m reminded of my offense.  Such a fine person deserves better from me – I deserve better from myself. 

Recently, I was among several Death Row inmates selected for a random urinalysis.  I arrived to find Newbie overseeing the process, as he went about his task with a grin.  I’d often experienced discomfort whenever he was present – a nagging guilt that pecked at my conscience and impeded the wholeness of reform.  Tonight’s discomfort was more salient and intense, as I struggled with the idea of possible outcomes.  What if Newbie had lost his job, or been accused of theft and criminally charged?  I squeezed my eyes tightly as my inner voice gathered.  Newbie deserved better.  So did I.

Some idle chat was used to generate dialogue on self-reform.   Then, with no one else around, my words spilled forth, “Yeah, man… many of us want to be better, but to do better, we have to own our truths.  Just like the time when that forty dollar draw come up missing…”  At that point, I had Newbie’s undivided attention.  While confessing my role in the missing funds, I felt embarrassed, but liberated.  I searched his eyes for a hint of anger.  They stayed steady and unrevealing.  I expressed my sincerity to return the funds and the difficulty of having involved another.  His fixed look filled me with shame – a shame I well deserved.

Finally, Newbie settled his thoughts and said, “Thank you for telling me that.”  For eighteen years Newbie had been puzzled by the events of that day.  He was certain about the money count and grateful to finally know what happened.  I was moved to witness such genuine forgiveness, given instantly and without effort.  I expected reprimand for my wrong-doing, instead, Newbie seemed relieved.  His forgiveness was validation in the courage to right our wrongs.  It was more than I deserved – it was a lesson in the goodness of humanity. 

©Chanton

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:  Terry Robinson writes under the pen name ‘Chanton’. Terry is a thought provoking, inspirational writer and a frequent contributor. It’s a privilege to share his work. He can be contacted at:
Terry Robinson #0349019
Central Prison
4285 Mail Service Center
Raleigh, NC 27699-4285

All Posts By Chanton

I hear talk the death penalty is becoming ‘unpopular’, and before long it won’t exist.  It’s just a matter of time before Texas and the rest of the country come to this conclusion.

But from what I can see here on death row, this thing we call the death penalty – legalized killing – is here to stay.  It’s economics.  People don’t invest money in something that isn’t going to be around for long. 

It wasn’t so long ago, I don’t know how much money was spent on putting video cameras all over this building to upgrade security. 

Next – the roof was taken up and completely redone.

A couple months ago every shower door was removed and replaced with solid stainless steel doors that were professionally installed.  At seventy-two doors, I can’t even imagine what the cost came to.

A few weeks ago, every food slot was removed and replaced with a new one to use a key lock instead of a bar.  That’s 504 slots just for this building. 

Next, I hear they plan to repaint all the cells – one by one. 

So, you see, it’s hard to see this kind of investment in death row housing unless the death penalty is here to stay in Texas.  Actions speak a lot louder than actual words…

ABOUT THE WRITER.  Travis Runnels is the author of Guidance On Navigating The Path To Love and How To Survive In Prison. He can be contacted at:

Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351

Other Posts By Travis.