Wanna cry me a river
Tears for my peers
Executed over the years
Despite these fears
Living life in this period
Grinded in the gears
Of unfair justice
Strapped down in line
Hoping it’s not my time
To cry my river…
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
Sometimes I wish I was a kid again
Living in a world free of sin
Free from war that has no meaning
Sure!
I’m still California Dreamin’
Leaning on my own understanding
Tired of Politicians’ deceptive grandstanding
Telling you what you want to hear
So they can get your vote
It’s either the Ballot or the Bullet
Not watermelon nor chicken
And just because I eat at Chick-fil-A
Don’t make me anti-gay
It just means I accept marriage to mean a husband and a wife
I’m pro-life…
Live and let live…
To be or not to be…
And yet,
Sometimes…
I just want to kick back and eat a pork sandwich
While watching Charlotte play with her web in search for Wilbur
Follow me?
Society can be a cruel place
Often making me feel like a mental-case
Worrying about my family’s safety
Not caring whether or not the Executioner hates me
Humans will always be at odds with Humanity
It’s the essence of Insanity
“One Nation Under God,” has never existed
Uncle Sam keeps murderers enlisted
Never forget My Lai of 1968
Sometime…
Sometimes can be a little too much
I feel that I’ve grown out-of-touch
I shun liars
And speak the truth
Having immature folks call me a nincompoop
My mother tells me I just don’t understand
While I explain I speak with the tongue of a changed man
My so called friends say these nine pounds of steel has messed with my brain
Sometimes…
I only wish they could feel my pain
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Charles “Chucky” Mamou is a gifted writer living on Death Row. He can be contacted at:
Charles Mamou #999333
Polunsky Unit 12-CD-53
3872 South FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
At age eleven I was diagnosed as a Type I diabetic. I weighed 90 pounds dripping wet, and in May of 1972 I went from that 90 pounds to 56 in about two and a half weeks. I was incessantly thirsty. I couldn’t eat enough food, and I threw up and pissed like a drunken sailor.
My dad took me to the family doctor, and he tested my urine and called the children’s hospital in Columbus, Ohio, to get me admitted. Once there, my blood tested at 901 – I was on the edge of a coma. I was in the ICU for a week before they moved me to a regular room, where my diabetic training commenced.
I was put on a special diet – seven exchanges a day. Three servings of meat or protein (eggs, fish, peanut butter), four milk or dairy, three fruits, three vegetables and two fats. If I wanted ice cream, I could have it, only if I exchanged one milk and one dairy for it. I was told to avoid a lot of starches, potatoes, bread, rice, cereal – everything an eleven year old craves. Only three of these, no more candy. No more sickly sweet sodas.
The doctors at the hospital told my dad that I had juvenile diabetes, and that I most likely wouldn’t see my 21st birthday. My dad and I celebrated that birthday together on December 16, 1981, and I’m 57 now. The docs were a bit off.
The doctors also told my dad not to be too strict with me. The more I was treated like I was a normal, the less likely I’d develop complications – everything in moderation. Of course, this instruction became another way for my mother to punish me. She rid the house of sugar. It was an actual sugar embargo. No more cakes, pies, cookies, candy, Captain Crunch. Nothing entered the house that could be construed as sugar.
I stuck to my diet and Dad would sneak me out on Saturday afternoons for ice cream. And, with sugar on the barred substance list, I learned to cook. Cakes, pies, and Toll House cookies were just a few ingredients away. I made a few trial and error mistakes, but you can’t keep a good (or bad) diabetic down.
However, if mom discovered my transgressions, she’d beat me silly, yell, scream and ground me for weeks on end. I didn’t get caught often, but when I did, there was hell to pay. When I turned sixteen, she took me to a church counselor to see, “What the @?!#!,” was wrong with me.
I talked to him for an hour. She talked to him for an hour. In the end, she grabbed me by the hand, and we stormed out of the church. Later that evening, my Dad told me, “Your mom is upset because the counselor told her you weren’t the problem, she was.”
On July 4th, 1980, I packed everything I owned and escaped to Ohio. By September I was back. I had a relapse. My insulin needed adjustment, and my blood sugar went back to 700, so I had to spend another two weeks in the hospital. This was proof to my mom that I wasn’t taking care of myself, and they were just wasting their time and money on a lost cause.
In September of 1981 I left again. This time I went to Grand Prairie, Texas. I sold the ‘useless comic books’ that were ‘taking up space and collecting dust’, and I rented a two bedroom apartment for six months. I fixed my car, got a job working for Kroger Grocery Company, and I paid for two semesters of college with money to spare. Thank you Marvel Comics!
In the spring of 1983 I got sick again, and Dad asked me to come home. He said he’d foot the rest of my college education. I almost graduated. In 1988 I was about 30 credit hours short of my degree in Computer Science, and I’d taken enough English courses to keep me close to an Associates in English.
After my dad died that year, I had another episode with diabetes, this time dropping instead of elevating. My sugar went to 28 one morning, and I almost died on the way to the hospital. Now, instead of too much sugar, it was not enough.
I was bouncing back and forth before my incarceration. And, now, after being in prison for 25 years surrounded by pancakes, pasta and everything but the proper nutrition, I’ve developed PTSD – Pancake Traumatic Stress Disorder.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’. In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583
Brother forgive me,
I find no pleasure in what I must do.
No joy. No pride.
No honor.
Though the deed that you’ve willed
Will never be,
The intent forever will.
Now the blood of a brother
Must be spilt
On the iron foundation
Of what we have built,
Though it is not for us to say whose,
It would seem that
With the words of a coward,
And the heart of a soldier,
That it is you whom fate has chosen
To mark as her own.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Robert McCracken is a gifted poet.
He can be reached at:
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
175 Progress Drive
Waynesburg, PA 15370
I grew up amongst the tribe of fatherless sons,
We are the true lost ones.
Finding thugs, killers and dope dealers
As role models for our future.
Our mothers strove from 8 to 5,
Tryin’ to keep hope alive
That our rebellion was just a phase,
One to pass in the coming of days,
But oh, how we were lost in our ways.
See, we longed for more than a mother’s love,
We looked tirelessly for a masculine image to clone.
Told to be ‘the man’ of the home,
But lost upon us, like gold’s shine covered in dust,
Was the meaning of being a ‘man’.
Our fathers were like gardeners
Who plant a seed as it were
And never came back to nurture,
Letting it spring up amongst weeds and insects
That on its innocence feed.
It’s not only that we have been forgotten,
We have been forsaken
By supposed men, of which we’re the next of kin.
So, I call out you cowardice swine,
Who left behind in your lustful wake,
Hearts and lives you thought not twice to break.
How do you answer for your crimes?
Does the anguish caused by you
Play upon your conscious mind?
For those of us who did not succumb,
To all that we had to overcome,
And even those still lost,
May our tribe die with us,
For a future without fatherless sons is a must!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Reggie West is serving life without the possibility of parole. He can be reached at:
Reggie West #FE-6643
1000 Follies Road
Dallas, PA 18612
My heart is crumbling into dust, not pieces.
There is no reconstructing the damage.
I’m bleeding.
I want redemption for my penance,
As the lost seek Divine forgiveness.
Hope is all I have,
And it’s a fine thread from heaven.
Despair is a razor rendering the cord unwoven.
I’m on borrowed time, with an impossible interest rate,
In fear of having the loan called in.
I grow weary from all this prison life,
So, I’m going to sleep.
Perhaps tomorrow I’ll try again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Darrell has contributed several pieces to this site and continues to write. He wrote this piece not long ago, shortly after a friend of his lost his life inside his cell.
Darrell Sharpe #W80709
P.O. Box 43
Norfolk, MA 02056
I sympathize with the people of Flint, Michigan. Their water was contaminated because nobody gave much thought to the problems that could be created by switching from a water source that was proven reliable to the Flint River, which was known for its mercury poisoned waters.
Sometimes greed overcomes public welfare and safety. Or, as in our case, indifference.
When I arrived at this place in May of 1995, I immediately noticed one thing. The water wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just the way it tasted. If an inmate heats water for coffee, soups or anything else they might want to cook, they need a hot pot. The pot doesn’t get hot enough to ‘boil’ water, but it can get hot enough to ‘crock pot’ a meal if used correctly.
I’ve had two. I had the first one for almost six years and the second for ten. Both never leaked because I kept them dry while not in use, and I never left water in them for longer than an hour. Everyone who owns one and doesn’t dry it out immediately after use is plagued with the dilemma of replacing their pot. If a pot is left slightly wet or heats water for long periods of time, the water will begin to eat through the bottom plate of the pot.
Which brings us to the crux of the story. All of the water coolers here have filters – except for the ones in the male housing areas. The infirmary, the cannery, the areas where officers fill their bottles, the officers’ dining areas – all of those locations have filtered water. Everywhere – but where we live. There are even signs in some locations stating ‘non-potable water’.
The officers often buy bottled water from the commissary or bring in bottles by the dozens in the hotter months of June, July and August. Of course, I can hear my dad saying to me now, “Johnny, if water can eat through a hot pot, imagine what it’s doing to your stomach?” It regularly eats and corrodes the water pipes in the plumbing system.
So, what’s in the water? Being the resourceful person I am, I once sent a fellow inmate home with a water sample to find out. He was a plumber by trade so he had access to the type of testing and technology needed. A week after he got home and settled in, he had the sample tested. He never sent me the results, only told me, “You don’t wanna know.”
Before I came to prison in 1993, I never experienced any kind of skin irritation or sensitivity. I’ve battled all kinds of skin problems since I’ve been here. I’ve had athletes foot, jock itch, and scaling skin issues since my arrival. I seem to have developed an immunity over the years, but I continue to see things on a daily basis that, pardon the pun, would make your skin crawl.
The quality of life suffers when the water you drink and bathe in is at war with you. Sometimes there are notices to the inmates to boil the water we use. Remember our hot pots? They don’t boil – crazy, huh? Or is it by design?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Beginning to feel a little less ‘Shipwrecked, Abandoned, and Misunderstood’. In spite of 25 years behind bars, John Green continues to wake up every day holding on to his humanity and on a mission to change the world for the better.
John Green #671771
C.T. Terrell Unit A346
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583
Day 1:
I’ve spent ninety-two weeks plus, cooped up at The People’s Zoo. This is where they place all of the untrustworthy incorrigibles to be petted, groomed and most importantly – watched.
In my observation of ‘them’, we seem to be comfortable. Well, unbearably content, in our one-man cubicles. All that is at the convenience of the occupant is a sink, commode and bed. Ironically, it’s peaceful in the Gates of Hell when the ‘minders’ take breaks from assessing the great threats to maximum security overflow. Quiet… but not for long, only while they smoke.
Constant illumination, sensory deprivation and the excessive noise coming from the cage doors being rattled – the mammals want out.
Some’ll settle for meaningful conversation, others mental stimulation. Most, sexual gratification for some of the lowliest beings on the planet: voyeurs in lust. ‘Where’s the dignity in smiling when the manacled man sings?’ Tell me this. I have yet to grasp the humor. But, this is the infamous People’s Zoo. We are here for entertainment purposes. No matter how malicious, sadistic, and plain sick they seem to be.
We can’t exist… or so I think we can’t. This is what their actions have shown, our handlers I write of.
As I sit on my two-inch mat covered with thin sheets, I’m enshrouded in a wool overcoat, my blanket, under garments and some semi-comfortable slide-ins. The stillness reminds me of the inside of a monastery and my appearance, a monk. However, my mind is an endless pit of no-thingness. Free to roam outside of the boxcar doors that hold me. Even the loud rumble from the exhaust vent can’t distract me. My Zen isn’t compromised while smelling the vile sweat, putrid breath and bile of men who are no longer men. Shells of their old selves. Hollow. Broken beyond mending. So, I sit.
I hear the jingle of keys and the squeak of bald rubber on uneven concrete. Food – if that’s what they call it.
The ‘chuck hole’ bangs open abruptly, disturbing my peace.
Clack, Boom, Boom, Boom – my nose is filled with the most noxious of smells. Pigs entrails?! The gods have sent me a message to read on earth. So, why eat? I stare at this filth and discard it into my toilet with passion. I understand, so I sacrifice. When I flush, my toilet swallows the entire portion hungrily in one gulp. I hope he doesn’t, oh… vomit it back to the surface, presenting it as a ‘peace offering’ – guilt for all of the meals I’ve fed him, quelling the hunger pains and the gurgles and growls deep inside his bowels. A gift…??? It whines, so I accept approvingly. It’s okay, Ol’ Boy.
Day 2:
I awake the following morning to the same familiar stillness. The warm sun cascading through the cracks of the metal window shudder that I can’t remove. Beautiful. I’m so glad that was nothing more than a nightmare. Whew!
Jingle. Clack. Boom. Boom. Boom.
It wasn’t. This is my reality. Our proverbial Black Hole of existence.
It replays the same as yesterday, but I numbly chew the moldy bread and sour grapes. ‘The gods are good, Amen’ – as I pull out the sword that I’ve hidden under my loin cloth. I’m going to whet the edges against the yellow rock that’s in plain sight. It doesn’t matter if I’m seen. I’m always seen, watched, observed, lusted after and hated. Besides, I’ve grown accustomed to the raps on my cage perturbing my Peace. Testing my patience as another ‘tour’ is brought through.
“See, this one is quiet but deadly. He doesn’t have too much to say,” in a hushed tone. “Folks, he’s the most serious of them all.” I can hear the exited murmurs as he looks in and knocks lightly, nearly respectful, and coo’s like I’m the pet circus lion he loves to be scared of at night. “How’re you holding up in there? Can I help you with anything?” I go back to whetting the edges of my sword while cool blue eyes in pale faces covered in blond hair gawk in awe. “I guess he’s moody right now. I know you wanted him to do something, Hon. Maybe next time,” as he walks away disappointed. They wanted me to display what, Anger? It figures.
‘Where’s the dignity?’ This is what the voice keeps asking me. I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I look, but nobody is there. Funny. I know some-thing, some-body was there. I don’t feel alone. He’s here… again. I mustn’t fight it. I must sleep.
Jingle. Clack. Boom. Boom. Boom. The hatch snatches me out of my dreamless slumber. I roll back over and look at the steel shutters that I call a window.
Boom. Clack!
“Well, starve then, suits you best, punk.” The chorus of the pig’s keys chiming helps me drift off to…
Day 3:
I pace my floor in slow, calculated strides. Like a feline, the King of All Cats – The Lion. Yet, I dare roar. It’ll expose my hand and allow them to see me in the light that I’ve worked so hard to distract them from. I’m now the ‘Quiet One’. I smile quietly to myself as I unsheathe my sword. I admire the elegance of my work. She’s been with me for as long as I can remember. Flexible, yet firm. Molding to my hand. It belongs there. So, I write,
Life is pointless if I cannot make a point.
So I will live doing or die trying.
THEY…
give me no choice.
Hatred isn’t a strong enough word.
What I feel has yet to be
invented, spoke, felt or heard;
Etymologically, it’s a verb.
Obliteration is most fitting.
Oppression
Exploitation
There’s no dignity
BUT
these people seem to turn a blind
eye to our humanity.
Give me a reason to show mercy
when the tables turn.
Pigs’ flesh clouds my cross hairs.
Deep Breath.
Trigger pulled.
Powder burn.
Peace,
Tranquility.
I smile quietly, hmmm, this’ll be a nightmare befitting of applause. BUT,
My room has no window
a box
devoid of cubic measurement.
a thought,
deemed to be illusion.
a cell.
a pit.
a room.
a tomb unfitting the confined,
metaphorically, dead.
us
me
them
WE
ARE
HERE.
this dismal crypt
our rooms have no windows…
none to see, but his
WHIP,
is this living?????
I see no other way
But OUT.
I must make it. I must be strong. I must, as tears sting my eyes, be… strong… I must.
To be continued…
Until THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Tracy Greer, Jr. has been in ‘the hole’ for two years. He is a gifted writer of poetry, fiction and essays.
Tracy Greer, Jr. 1153032
South Central Correctional Center
255 W. Hwy 32
Licking MO 65542
It’s winter, so bundle up – take a walk with me.
At my cell door, we have to stop. Two guards are on the other side, and I need to hand them all my clothes. I stand in my boxers as one searches through my thermal top, thermal bottom, two pairs of socks, shorts, t-shirt, jump suit and jacket. Once finished, the male guard hands all those items to the female guard standing next to him.
I then hand the man the last of my clothing, my boxer shorts and tennis shoes. Once he searches those, I’m made to do the strip search drill, lifting my testicles and turning around, before I’m allowed to put my boxers and tennis shoes back on. Turning my back to the door, I squat a bit to place my hands through the feeding slot so hand restraints can be placed on my wrists. Once locked in place, I stand up, and the guard motions for the cell to be opened.
“Back out the cell,” the guard states. You’re not supposed to turn around and walk out, but back out. Now we are escorted by the two guards to the recreation yard outside. Once through the door to the outside, the bitter cold instantly bites my flesh, sending goose bumps along my skin. As one guard holds me, the other walks the recreation yard, searching it – and holding my clothes.
Once she returns, I step in the yard and the door is closed behind me. I stoop once again to place my hands through the slot so the handcuffs can be removed. My clothes are then passed to me through the slot. I quickly begin putting them on and trying to get warm.
That was the easy part. After my time outside is up, the guards return to get me. Once again, I walk back to the gate door and begin to strip out in order to hand my clothes to the guard. Layer by layer, I hand them in as they are searched, piece by piece, until I am once again naked and outside. The last thing I hand in is my shoes, as I stand on the cold concrete, waiting. But, before they can be returned, I first have to raise my testicles, raise my arms, and turn around.
My body is shivering by the time I get my shoes and boxers back and turn around to once again put my shaking hands through the slot to get handcuffed. I then stand up before backing out the door and walking back into the building.
Thank you for walking with me. If you enjoyed this, we can do it again tomorrow. This is what every one of us does that wants to get outside our cell for two hours in the winter.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
Travis Runnels #999505
3872 FM 350
Livingston, TX 77351
When I die…
Everyone will congregate and cry
and say that I was a gift from the Gods.
When I die…
Everybody will look to the sky
and say, ‘Why!!?’
When I die…
Everybody will have
something to say.
When I die…
They will say that I was courageous,
rebellious and wise!
When I die…
They will say that I was a piece of light that
left the earth and it hurts.
When I die…
They will say that I was
a provider and protector.
When I die…
They will say that I was a tremendous leader,
a prolific writer, a riot inciter.
When I die…
But, of course,
none of this will be said until I die!
THE AUTHOR can be contacted at:
Kareem Gaines #JP1388
SCI Forest
P.O. Box 945
Marienville, PA 16239