Views From The Inside

My Prayer

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Dear God, let me start by saying
I’m serious when I say I’m tired of playing.
These games all the same,
Heroin or cocaine,
In the end you lose friends
and all you gain is pain.
I feel the rain on my hat,
I’m under Satan’s attack.
He’s contemplating if I’ll go back
to the life that I lived.
I got locked up
For the things I did.
I got a bid of twelve years,
Shed tears for my fam.
Going in as a kid,
Coming out as a man.
I understand now, God,
It was only a test.
Took a while to digest,
But I feel blessed.
Peace at last in my heart,
Staying away from the dark.
Regardless, they say I’m heartless,
Though I’m trying so hard
To start this new life.
Doing right is my biggest ambition,
But doing right in my hood
Means breaking tradition.
I got a mission
No man-made religion involved,
Just me and my dawgs,
Surrendering our lives
to the Almighty God!

ABOUT THE WRITER.   David Alejandro-Manzur, also known as ‘Ghost’, dreams of a free life and a chance to help kids avoid the mistakes he’s made.  He can be contacted at:
David Alejandro-Manzur #1709141
McConnell Unit
3001 S. Emily Drive
Beeville, TX 78102

 

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Sentenced to Death, Solitary Confinement, Views From The Inside

The Truth About Solitary Confinement & Administrative Segregation In Texas

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It’s easy to misunderstand exactly how we are housed on death row, because we are not actually ‘classified’ as solitary confinement, nor housed as such.  As death row inhabitants, we are classified under ‘administrative segregation’, a status that is reserved as punitive under TDCJ ID guidelines for behavior, gang membership and chronic disciplinary violations.

Regardless of whether or not a death row prisoner is an ideal inmate or not, they are permanently housed under these guidelines, with no arbitrary process to be removed from restrictions of movement and access. General population prisoners who are housed under the same punitive Administrative Segregation status are afforded the opportunity to go through courses created by TDJC ID in order to be removed from under the restrictions of Administrative Segregation.  Death-row prisoners are not given the same chance of removal to a less restrictive classification.  They are permanently ‘segregated’ and live under all the restrictions that entails.  We are not classified as solitary – and yet it feels very solitary, with no chance at relief.

On death row, we are allowed to come out of our cell five days per week for solitary recreation, Monday through Friday, for two hours each day.  On the weekends we are confined to our cells 24 hours per day.  Over the course of a year, the weekends have us confined for 104 days, 24 hours per day.  Throughout the year, we have four lockdowns for shakedowns of prison cells.  During this time, all the cells are searched for contraband, and everyone is confined to their cell 24 hours a day until it’s over. The first and third lockdown of the year includes 12 buildings – death-row and segregation – and lasts seven to ten days.  The second and fourth lockdowns include the entire prison and lasts 21 to 28 days.

Between the weekends and the lockdowns, we are confined to our cells 24 hours a day for approximately 164 days of the year – if you are a model prisoner.  If you were to get written up for violating a prison rule, such as not saying ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’, or using vulgar language, or refusing to groom, the number of days you are confined in a cell 24 hours per day can easily climb to over 200 a year.

On death row, we are not just fighting to not be executed, we are also confined in a prison within a prison at the most restrictive level possible.  Any violation of prison rules relegates you to even more in-cell confinement.

This is because death row prisoners are subject to a form of restriction and confinement under a classification designation that none of the other 150,000 Texas prisoners fall under.  The spokesperson for TDCJ ID has glossed over conditions on death row when it was expressed that prisoners are no longer housed in solitary confinement.

From one standpoint, the difference between death row confinement and solitary confinement is great. Solitary confinement, when it was used, was a temporary status for general population prisoners being punished for disciplinary infractions.  Solitary’s use was confined to fifteen days per write up or disciplinary case.  No matter how severe the infraction, the punishment was not permanent.

Death row’s restricted status is permanent and therefore, a lot worse than solitary confinement. I hear the media continue to identify our status as solitary confinement, which gives people a false understanding of our circumstances. We have no outlet here on death row.  The years – not days – continue to pile up as we sit inside our cells, subject to a punishment based classification status.

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

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Views From The Inside

Prison Reform

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I never thought prisons were unnecessary.  They serve a purpose when someone dangerous to themselves and society is incarcerated – until such a time they are no longer dangerous.  Which brings us to – Prison Reform.  The term alone is a threat to those who profit from overflowing prisons.

When the prison population becomes such that most of the farm is over fifty, broken down, chronically ill and unable to find the front gate – much less escape – I believe we need reform.  Every one of us makes mistakes, some worse than others, but when an inmate does exactly as he or she is told and serves the minimum amount of time required to be placed on parole – they should be allowed to go home.

If, after twenty-five years of incarceration, the system can’t prove you are up to something – chances are, you aren’t.  I’m not a psychiatrist or psychologist, but I think it would be impossible to hide who you truly are – good or bad – for a quarter of a century.  But, in order to justify their actions, the system will accuse you of – ‘manipulating the system’ – acting one way when you’re really another.

If they can’t prove you’re up to something, they believe they have not looked hard enough.  It couldn’t be that you were not up to anything except living a life of monotonous, repetitive days filled with boredom and no productivity.

On the other hand, if a person comes into the system with both guns blazing, caution to the wind, devil be damned, there is a good chance he or she will be the next to go.  That individual is categorized as a ‘repeat customer’.  Why release someone who is never coming back?  That would be bad for business.  And – once again – the taxpayer pays twice, sometimes three times, for the rehabilitation process.  The system is like sausage.  It tastes great going down, but if a person actually saw how the sausage was put together from start to finish, there would be more vegans.

Once again, I’m not saying prisons should be abolished, but more thought should be given to who and why a person is determined ‘too dangerous’ to be released after they reach their parole date.  A man in his sixties, convicted of something bad he did thirty years ago, is not the same person he was.  Ornery, maybe, but not a danger to anyone.  Without hope, it’s hard to start each day.

The philosopher, Confucius, 551-479 A.D., was once asked by the Governor of the province he resided in to report to him why the prisons were so full, why crime was so rampant, and people so corrupt and deprived.  Being the philosopher that he was, Confucius went from town to town interviewing the sheriffs, the mayors, and the wardens of the prisons.  When he returned to the Governor, he reported that the people were only as law-abiding and good as the people in charge and if the governor replaced corrupt officials with moral, good men – he’d see a change in the pattern.

The governor did just that.  Almost a year to the day later, the prisons were nearly empty, the crime rate nearly erased, and people were back on solid footing.

I know this is not ancient China, however mankind hasn’t changed that much in 2,500 years – maybe technology-wise but not morality-wise.  I believe the old philosopher was on to something.  I believe we should take the profit out of prison and put the prophet back in.

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 A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

Dream?

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Last night I dreamed I was dying.  Not from illness or old age – I was going to be executed by lethal injection.  It all happened so fast.  One moment I was living my miserable, yet consistent seventeen years of incarceration.  The next thing I knew, my number was up.

I kept telling myself it wouldn’t happen to me – that the mighty fist of God would swoop down and smote my enemies.  Then I remembered that my enemies had gods also – from my predicament it seemed evident whose god was winning.

I was kept isolated in a dusky room.  There were barred windows, a television set, and a steel cot to lay in my misery.  I paced in circles to unwind the hands of time.  I painted myself invisible with repentance.  I held intimate conversations with my family, though the walls said nothing in return.  I snapped in and out of trances, thinking, “Why haven’t we been called to class yet?”

Then my picture blasted onto the TV screen with the bold caption beneath:  KILLER TO BE EXECUTED TONIGHT, 2  A.M.   I studied the image and hardly recognized myself – my face looked worn with burden.  I slid into my flip-flops and searched for my headset, anxious to hear the report of a granted stay.  But it was too late.  Even a stay of execution would not quiet the mess that rattled in my head.

I made a decision – I was going to kill myself.  The circumstances I faced were so horrible and unreal that suicide seemed like the only remedy.  I combed the room for a weapon.  I felt desperate to die.  I noticed the bed sheets and was reminded of my friend E-Boogie, who’d hung himself.  I whispered an incantation, “I can do this,” over and over as I fumbled to tie the knots.

I could do it, couldn’t I?  It seemed paradoxical to be non-suicidal while contemplating killing yourself. Yet I couldn’t shake the notion that I deserved to decide my own fate.  Why should I give the state the satisfaction of terminating my life?  Why would I give death penalty supporters a cause to rally in victory?  These people were not loved ones of mine.  They hadn’t made sacrifices for me.  They’d never shed tears at night when I was late coming home or hugged me so tight that it felt electric.

The state hated me.  Its mass supporters of capital punishment hated me. They believed that life was wasted on me with absolutely no chance for redemption.  Well, I would show them.  No longer would they draw strength from my fears.  No longer would I be marked by their judgment.  They would not get to congregate over coffee and scones while my body convulsed from their poisons.  My life was not theirs to take – that duty was my own.

I knew that suicide was widely believed to be an unforgivable sin. Who was I kidding?  I’d been labeled a murderer by all those that mattered. There’d be no more tedious claims of innocence for doubters to discredit.  There’d be no salvation for people like me as long as there are people like them.  And there’d be no hope of a better tomorrow when my tomorrow was upon me today.

I spotted a beam that was high up on the ceiling and hoped it would suffice.  As I tied the sheets, I fashioned a noose to fit comfortably around my neck. Then I used a chair to hoist myself into my own death chamber.  I was furious, terrified, and yet somehow content – there was no other way.  I stepped off the ledge…

I was jarred awake in my cell on death row as my head swam with delirium.  I glanced around the room and choked back sadness as every item was a reminder of the possibilities to come.  I laid back, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  I was convinced that it was all a dream.  But after having lived through the reality of executions past, the dream left me with a single question, “Was it?”

©Chanton

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Harsh Sentences

Caught Up In The Web Of Chicago Justice

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Terry Thomas and his granddaughter.

Everyone has a story to tell, and Terry Thomas has a few.  It all started forty nine years ago, on the south side of Chicago.  Initially, I’m struck by just how ‘normal’ his childhood sounds, if there is such a thing.  He had a hard-working mom and dad, parents who wanted to educate and raise strong and independent kids.  There was a ‘hint’ that something wasn’t quite right, but I sense the Thomas children were not exposed to a lot of the tension between their parents, or maybe Terry was just too young to be aware of it.  Their father cheated, their mother didn’t like it.  There was abuse.  But – Terry remembers a middle class, loving home.

One night when Terry was twelve years old, everything he ever knew turned upside down.  He woke to the sounds of his parents arguing.  Oily and Lucille may have had issues before, but this night was different.  It was so different that Terry’s older sister gathered all four of her siblings and huddled them into the basement bathroom.  They listened as their father – the man they loved – begged for his life, followed by the sound of the gunshots that would later take his life.

Terry has memories from that night that can’t be erased.  He remembers the exact words that were spoken to his father by the police officer that arrived on the scene – “Get up, big nigga.”  That was one of Terry Thomas’ first encounters with law enforcement in Chicago.

A twelve year old boy in a middle class home lost both his parents that day.  His father, whom he loved, later died, and his mother left to serve a nearly two year sentence.

The Thomas children had to continue on after that night, each in their own way.  Terry remembers going back to school and feeling ashamed of what had taken place in his home.  He struggled to focus.  The fact that he was able to maintain any measure of stability in his life is due to his grandparents, who stepped up to take care of the children while Lucille served her sentence.  A young father himself, Terry dropped out of school at the age of seventeen to support two children of his own.

In 1988 Terry had a brush with the law.   He, along with several others, was searched, and drugs were found in the sock of his brother, Oily Thomas.  Both brothers were arrested that day, but the charges against Oily were dismissed and Terry was charged with drug possession.

In 1989, when he appeared in court for that incident, he was surprised to learn he was also arraigned on two more charges.  Those two charges claimed that Terry sold half a gram of cocaine to two undercover Chicago police officers in the same day.  Although Terry Thomas has requested the documents from the courts that support these charges, such as inventoried drugs or money, he has not been provided with any documentation of the evidence.

What he does have is an affidavit from Curtis Singleton, the man that claims to be the one that sold the drugs to the undercover officers that night.  Mr. Singleton expresses remorse – so much remorse that he completed Terry Thomas’ community service for him at the time.  In the affidavit he spoke of his regret for not standing up and taking responsibility for his actions.  He also states that he is willing to testify in court that he was the one that was actually guilty of possession with intent to distribute.

There is also an affidavit from Oily Thomas in regard to the original charge, confessing that the drugs that Terry was charged with having in his sock had actually been his.

In spite of the fact that there are affidavits signed by other individuals who admit guilt to these crimes, and also a valid argument regarding the length of time that took place between the arrests and the actual indictments, his lawyer convinced Terry to plead guilty to the crimes.

In April of 1996, trouble found him again.  He was once again arrested.   According to an affidavit by Byron Nelson, Mr. Nelson was selling drugs on the night in question, and Terry Thomas stopped by in his van.  Byron got inside.  At that point, they were approached by detectives and searched.  According to Byron Nelson, the officers found him with 37 packages of cocaine in his pocket.  Nothing was found on Terry.   They were both arrested.  When Byron Nelson tried to clear up the confusion at the police station, he states he was told to, ‘Tell it to the judge.’

Terry and his grandson.

Then again, in 1997, Terry found himself in trouble for drugs.  And, once again, there is an affidavit stating that Terry took the fall for someone else’s crime.  In the affidavit, Karl Merritt states that he was delivering drugs to someone when the police showed up.  Karl states he dropped his drugs and ran.  Karl says that he later found out that Terry laughed when he got away, and when questioned by the police, he wouldn’t give up his friend.  He then states that the police planted his drugs on Terry and arrested him.

Terry and his grandson.

There is no doubt in my mind that Terry Thomas has not been angelic.  He was often in places that he shouldn’t have been in and could have avoided some of his troubles, but he was a high school dropout becoming a man on the streets of Chicago with no parents and trying to raise kids of his own.  Having trouble around was his reality.

Sadly, the divide between citizens and those who police them in Chicago has been historically vast.  In a place that doesn’t often accept accountability there are many valid questions in the case of Terry Thomas.   Where it appears that one man seems to be continually battling with missteps with a police department, it is a police department that is notorious for missteps.  It is the very lack of consistent transparency within Chicago’s Police Department that makes Terry Thomas’ nightmare within the system possible.

There are some things that are not in question.  Terry Thomas lost his parents when he was twelve years old in a tragic manor.   He struggled to get his footing after that, which is no surprise.  Terry was a high school dropout, trying to support children when he was a child himself.  He lived in Chicago – a place where a Police Accountability Task Force has studied and documented the Police Department’s lack of accountability and transparency, not to mention targeting individuals of color.   There are several affidavits signed by individuals who clearly acknowledge their own guilt in the charges against Terry Thomas, who is now in Federal Prison and serving an additional twenty years on top of a ten year sentence for conspiracy to possess with intent to distribute a controlled substance.   Those additional twenty years are for a combination of crimes that have signed affidavits by other individuals admitting to guilt – not to mention questions regarding the legality of the time between arrests and indictments.

Terry is scheduled for release on March 14, 2031.  He will be 62 years old at that time.

Inquiries as to the status of  the Conviction Integrity Unit’s review of Terry Thomas’ case  can be addressed to:
Kimberley Foxx
Cook County States Attorney
2650 S. California Avenue 12B13
Chicago, IL 60608

Terry Thomas can be contacted at:
Terry Thomas #16399424
Federal Correctional Institution
P.O. Box 1000
Milan, Michigan 48160

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Views From The Inside

Brown Eyes

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I thought I saw you yesterday,
But, maybe my imagination was running wild.
I was isolated,
Trying to escape my tomb.
But I felt your angelic presence,
And, I saw your halo shine…
But when I opened my eyes
I realized – it was only a figment of my imagination.
Brown eyes, I thought I saw you yesterday.
Maybe it’s because my heart was heavy
And needed to see an angel
To escape this hell.
Brown eyes, I thought I saw you yesterday.
Through this doom and gloom – I smiled…

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.   Kareem Gaines is a poet, writing for the living and the dead, the free and the enslaved, the bruised and the healed.  He is serving a forty year sentence and can be contacted at:
Kareem Gaines #JP1388
State Correctional Institution at Dallas
1000 Follies Road
Dallas, PA 18612

 

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Views From The Inside

The Book Of Bob

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Originally published by www.uncaptivevoices.wordpress.com.

My best friend, my protector, my teacher, and my inspiration in anything I ever accomplished or failed at was my father.  His name was Bob.  If I had known I would only have him in my life for twenty-seven years, I would have  crammed more time into each and every day.  But none of us know exactly when we’re going to leave or how much time is allotted us.

I’m not a deeply religious person.  That being said, it’s not as if I’m not a spiritual man.  After all, someone has to be in charge of all this chaos.  My dad used to say things. Sometimes they were deeply profound, sometimes they were funny, and they always had some meaning. I wish I had been paying more attention to him; more than likely I wouldn’t be writing this from a prison if I had.  However, I feel everyone should know about ‘The Book Of Bob’.  You won’t find it in the library or at a bookstore or on a newsstand.  It’s not available in fine print or large.  It’s embedded in my life and written on my heart.

My dad, born Robert Norris Green, was brought into this world on December 1, 1932.  He left too soon, on June 13, 1988.  He was only 56 years old, but he looked like he was in his early 40’s.  He passed a yearly physical and stress test a month before a blood clot formed in his leg.  It broke loose and traveled to his heart.  He died instantly. There were no anti-clotting agents back then.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here now, and he would be sitting somewhere, drinking coffee, and telling me a joke or adding to ‘the book’.

He used to tell me things like, “Some people see the glass as half-full and some half-empty.”  My dad thought the glass was too big.

Or, “The world is a small place, but I wouldn’t want to have to paint it.”

My favorite, “Life is like a crap sandwich, the more bread you have, the less crap you have to eat.”

I developed my sense of humor based on my dad’s little sayings, but he never taught me how to cope with difficult people.  Or maybe he did, in his own way.  The man would give the shirt off his back if he thought someone needed it.  He used to help complete strangers, the homeless, stray dogs and cats.  There wasn’t a moment in my life that I felt I couldn’t tell my dad what I’d done or hadn’t done – never a second I felt I couldn’t depend on him.  It is through my dad that I was taught to love and express my feelings.

If everyone had such a figure in their lives, the world would be a better place.  That is why I get frustrated in this place.  It separates and divides families for years at a time and does nothing to try and mend or heal broken fences or relationships.  Since I’ve been incarcerated, I have never been closer than 300 miles from my adopted home in East Texas (I was born in Columbus, Ohio).

I see inmates struggle because they have lost what is essential to being human:  relationships, hope, faith and yes – love.  Many, more than likely, never had a father or ‘Dad’, and it saddens me to know that the next generation will likely repeat the process of being locked away from family and friends.

Bob used to tell me that there is a part of each of us that is good.  Sometimes you have to look harder in some to find it, but it’s there. I’ve seen hardened men break down and cry when they finally realize what is important and what they’ve lost.  We need to look for that, grow it, and accept it as the normal – not the impossible.  We need more of the type I was graced to have as my dad – my best friend.  We need each other, and we need more Bob.

It’s funny how that happens.  You live life forward, but you learn from it backward…

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 A150
1300 FM655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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Views From The Inside

‘The Bread’

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Every Sunday when I was a kid my grandmother would get up at 5:00 a.m. to make Sunday dinner.  We would all go to church, and before we left, dinner would be fixed and on the stove.  And, she always made cornbread.  She could make it all sorts of ways – jalapeno, cheese, pork – and she would bake it in all types of pans.

From time to time, I’d play sick and be allowed to stay home with my uncle who never went to church.  That’s when I’d make my way into the kitchen and into the pan of cornbread.  I’d cut off a piece, then another and another.  One time I ate all but one small slice.

My grandmother would get so mad at me when she would come home and get ready to eat.  One time she brought the pastor home and the cornbread was gone.  That was it for me.  She told me I was the cornbread eatin’est little boy she ever saw.

It wasn’t long after that she woke me up around 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and told me to wash up and help her in the kitchen.  I found her at the kitchen table with all the ingredients laid out to make her cornbread.  She also had two pans – hers and one small one for me.  From that day forward, I would get up every Sunday morning and make that pan of bread.

One day a friend came over and called me ‘Cornbread’.  That was in 1967, and the name stuck.  It was with me until I came to prison.  After I got here I heard some guys talking, and one of them called the other Cornbread.  I dropped the ‘corn’ in my name that day.  Now – I’m just called ‘The Bread’.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Alfred Hall lives in a prison in Texas and can be contacted at:

Alfred L. Hall #01840184
Ramsey 1 Unit
1100 FM 655
Rosharon, TX 77583

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Prison Conditions, Views From The Inside

Intake

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Prison isn’t anything like its depicted in films.  It’s not glamorous.  In fact I spend more time sleeping than anything else.  The other things follow – writing and reading, followed by standing in endless lines to nowhere for food, showers, the pill window, insulin administration, commissary, everything is a line.

The line at the bank, or the Department of Motor Vehicles, or the Post Office are short and fast compared to the lines here.  On those lines you might hear “next” or “this line is closed.”

Here?  You are subject to getting yelled at, called everything but your name, and thrown out of line even though you’ve been as quiet as a church mouse.

When I got out of the van that transported me from the county jail to diagnostics, I was walked in the back door of the prison along with everyone else, and we were herded like cattle or sheep into holding tanks. From there, we were moved to another tank, stripped of our orange jail clothes and led barefoot and naked to a shower area.  Afterwards, we were given clothes, boots, and off to the barber.

At this barber you are shaved, once again much like a sheep, and given a comb (which you won’t need for a few months).  From there, you are escorted to a row (cells).  After that, it’s a new experience every day.  You are taken to medical where your needs are evaluated and you are given medication to keep you alive if deemed necessary.

You are taken to dental, where they marvel at your perfect teeth, give you a toothbrush, and then you go back to housing.

The next day its Q and A.  You talk to psychology and sociology. You’re given an IQ test, an education evaluation test and quizzed on your academic background.  Did you graduate from high school?  What grade did you complete?  Did you attend college?  What kind of employment did you have?

You’re given an MMPI – Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory – and you’re asked questions like, Are you suicidal?  Are you hearing voices?  Are you angry?  Sad?  Of course.

Prison is like being born. You enter crying, naked hungry and unsure of what will happen next.  If you survive the next 48 hours without any issues, then you have the following three weeks to get used to waking up at 3 a.m. every day and going to breakfast, lunch, and dinner at specific intervals.  It isn’t like in the movies.  You don’t have other inmates yelling, “Bitch, I’m going to have you in my cell tonight!”  or “Give me those tennis shoes, they look like they’ll fit!”  Basically, everyone there is new and on the same page socially.

At the end of intake though, that’s when you have to watch what’s going on around you.  They assign you to a unit.  Some are close by, some are 400 miles from nowhere.  I was assigned to the French Robertson Unit in Abilene, Texas.   Texas is a big state.  It wasn’t just 400 miles from nowhere, it was dead center.   It was cold and wet in the winter and uncomfortably hot and dry in the summer.  No fall, no spring.

We arrived after a ten hour bus ride.  That’s when the fun began.  That’s where dog eat dog starts. A good number of the inmates sent to French Robertson are, to sum it up in one word, predators.  The guards were there for two reasons – to keep anyone from escaping and to keep the weaker inmates from being eaten.  All the education in the world can’t help you.  You either give up or you fight.

I’m not good at giving up, but I’m not a prize fighter – I’m a surprise fighter.  If I feel threatened, my best defense is a great offense. At 5’9” and 160 pounds, I don’t intimidate anyone.  I never intended to live my life as an MMA fighter.  I was 33 years old, well educated, soft spoken, big hearted and scared to death.

Then I met Mongo.  He may not have been the sharpest crayon in the box, but he had a sharpener.  He taught me things in the following months that would keep me alive.  Hell, he kept me alive.

Like Bob used to tell me, “The only way to eliminate your enemies is to make them your friends.”  So, I mixed and matched.  The ones I couldn’t convince I wasn’t lunch, I avoided or I fed to Mongo.  The ones I trusted, I kept at arm’s length, but I used my charm to win them over.

I did okay, I think.  I’m still alive.  I have one scar above my left eyebrow where I fell because of a hypoglycemic reaction – I passed out, hit my head on the corner of the table and hit the floor nose first.  They stitched the eye, reset the nose, good as new!  I also have a ten inch scar on my left ankle above the foot, where they had to operate because of a staph infection.  Not bad for twenty-five years.

But, I want to go home now.  To erase the scars on the inside, the psychological ones.  I’ve seen all the sights, I rode all the rides.  It’s time.

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

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Sentenced to Death, Views From The Inside

My River

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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

 

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Prison Writing and Expression