A witches heart

Harold Sanford Carter III/112150
807 Cushing Rd.
Warren, Maine 04864-4600

‘A witches heart’

My heart is big for I love nature.
Authority, I always question.
Magick is a current inside me.

Magick is a thought-twisted; bent.
Equilibrium is what I am.

The wise beg for equilibrium.
King master of the middle pillar.
I seek to discover the unknown.

A neophyte on the throne to seek.
No desire makes me a master.

My true master is the Phase of Moon.
Truly indeed, I learn from her tides.
Forever in service the gaia.

Forever not will to hypnotize.
The path reveals my own bewitchment.

Along the path; I even hug trees.
Dancing of love and live to meet Pan.
His forest is indeed my center.

A Just US System the Political Schemers

A JUST US SYSTEM
THE POLITICAL SCHEMERS

Politicians want to look tough on crime, but they are the ones to blame for prison overcrowding, to them it’s just a Money Game. This is the law they enacted, so what is it really all about? A game they play with human lives called “3-Strikes and you’re out.”

Back in 1994, they started giving us all this time, throwing the key away? They see money, money, money on the prisoners face; no concerns about Rehabilitation just fill up the prison space. That’s what this is all about, what we did was wrong yes, but no one was killed or really hurt but the system is throwing us away like Garbage and Treating Us like Dirt.

This unfair law is affecting everyone who is morally conscious and aware of true justice. If a person has paid for a crime he or she has done in the past, by doing his or her time, then what makes it right, to force that person to be charged again for that same crime that has been paid for?

It’s called overcharging and taking advantage of the power the citizens of California has given to politicians who is supposed to uphold the standards of truth, justice, and fair play.

They took us away from society, with greed in mine, affecting our children and the possibilities in our lives, just so they could capitalize. They have locked us up and don’t seem to want to let us go, a living Hell the over crowding, like living in Roach Motel.

This law was supposed to protect our children, but our schools have taken a fall, it’s about the money, man, not justice for all.

Bad Politicians are cutting our children’s education by millions upon millions of other peoples hard-earned tax dollars they take away from our children’s hopes, their dreams and handicap their future this is not leadership, but a greedy diabolical inhumane scheme that must go away. A monstrous atrocity:

The worst I ever saw, a unjust rule, they call “The 3-Strikes Law”

Written by JJ Walker and Revised by Jimmy Gaffeney Jr. aka Yusuf.

Don’t Throw Snow

DON’T THROW SNOW *

The prison guard yelled!
“Put that snow down”
The snow ball fell from my hands.
Down to the ground.
Also did my head look down.
I sad in place for a time to ponder.
What harm becomes of snow?
Twa’s not ice that I held
Sensory deprivation.
Just to touch the snow is a privilege.
The prison guard came close.
A shadow upon me.

Inside was oppression
Outside was rage.
OK’
I wont throw snow.
Torture!
My inner child has been held back.

It’s being held hostage.

Harold Sanford Carter III

HALF WHOLE Existence: A Poem and Note from a New Voice in Shirley, MA.

HALF WHOLE Existence

Picture an existence w/o feminine affection
No hugs, kisses. I love yous or womanly words of wisdom
No touches, caresses, backrubs, or slippery ish to slip in
No break ups to make up, war of wits, or loving life lessons
No innuendos, provocation, or flirty disposition
No stress relief, peck on cheeks, or late night confessions.
No love bites, play fights, or friendly competition
No other half, sharing a bath just a half whole existence.

January 23, 2012
Sophie,

How are you doing? Hopefully you are mentally and physically at your best when my letter reaches you. Anyways, I came across a publication of the services you provide, and was interested in having my voice heard. So I am giving you control/permission to publish the poem I have enclosed in this letter.

Than you take care

Chimezie Akarq

Prison Realities

Page 1 of 2

 

Prison Realities

Prison is not the way people think it is.  Only prisoners know the real prison.

The real prison is lonlines that sinks its teeth into the souls of people.  Emptiness that leaves

A sick feeling inside.  Its anxiety that pushes and swells.  Uncertanty that smothers and strikes.  Its frustration, futility, despair and feelings of indifference.

 

The real prison suppresses, deadens and crushes.  The walls seem to close in on an

inmate.  It makes life w/o meaning, life w/o purpose.  Its being incarcerated w/o even notoriety.  W/O the traditional storybook and intrigue.

 

The real prison is where people struggle ferverently to find the answers to themselves.

The place of routine, where livin is A weary task.  It’s a place of hopelessness that’s

never portrayed on T.V.

 

The real prison is the mute drama of people who have been payin for their debts for 5, 10, 20 and even 50 years and know that even still their debts are still never paid in

full.  To much real prison is sordiness, indifference and disappointment; crowded in

the confines of corrections are people who have seen so many third rate motels room

in so many different cities, to many smoke filled gin mills on to many skid rows: to many days w/o beauty and to much darkness w/o light.

 

The real prison is more formidable then the walls make of stone, steel bars and gun towers.  It almost shouts contempt for its fumbling and gropin humanity.

It listens unhearingly, unheedingly to the cries of the damned.

 

Prison is cold, hard and merciless.  It’s the place of many reasons many

causes and many failures.  The place of countless untold stories.

 

The real prison is the empty feeling that gnaws at A man who awaits with anxious

anticipation for the letters that never comes and the visits that never arrive.  It’s a

place of despair for the youths committed for the rest of their natural lives.  A future

that has been taken away.

 

The real prison is the place of regretful men who took lives in the moment of

anger, once the moments of passion were spent, they began payin for their crimes, and

haved payed for them in A thousand different ways.

 

The narrowness of A cell that crushes and bears 2 heavily, speaks of the real

prison.  The strains of familiar songs on the radio that stab and torture the memory

part of prison life.

 

The emptiness of days and the lonliness of the nights are repeated endlessly.

 

The Real Prison?  It is the prison only those who live behind the wall, in the

midst of the action, in the belly of the beast, will ever know.

 

-Chance

MA Correctional Institute

 

To: Sophie

 

From: Chance

 

Verbal sentiments to let the views into my vicarious life.

Everybody might not enjoy the read but regardless of anything

I hope that its felt, otherwise, it defeats the purpose of my

submission.

 

Rare Breed

Rare Breed

When someone asks me, “what happened?”
Their like, “you know, with that or this.”
I say “oh, I didn’t tell you?
Because, it’s none of your business”!
Want to know how to find out if someone’s real?
I’ve got a suggestion, that’s quite ideal.
It’s a plan to be signed, stamped, and sealed.
To set yourself straight, through this whole ordeal.
When asked to do a solid for a supposed friend.
You come to find out, he stabs you in the back in the end.
Because, no matter what, everytime.
He’s the first, to drop a dime.
Ones true colors, come shining through.
Still you remain, as always, old school.
Facing the consiquences, like a real man.
And come to truly understand.
That you alone, were caught commiting the crime.
And you alone, shall serve the time.
Don’t take someone else down with you.
And remember to always remain true.
Keep it in mind, as you walk these streets.
We’re hard to find, this rare breed.

8/16/11
Written By: Derek Lindsay
Maine State Prison

You’re all Alone

You’re all Alone

If you have an addiction, that needs to be fed.
Like an obsession inside of your head.
You’d do anything, to get that next fix.
Like, stealing, or turning tricks.
If you’re never experienced it first hand.
Then how can you tell me, you understand?
Because you read some books, or took some class?
Where they put your name on some useless plague?
So, try with your books and degrees.
To understand a users mind.
I can most definitely, garantee.
You will be completely blind.
To what goes on inside the mind,
of someone who wants to get high.
I know how it is, because I’ve lived this life.
So, here it is, some good advice.
Instead of trying to be so crooked or stoned.
Try to do the right thin when no ones looking
you’re all alone

8/13/11
Written by: 
Derek Lindsay
Maine State Prison

A Voice from the Grave & If You Were to Leave Before I Do

View this document on Scribd

unknown

“unknown”

She always knew.  Playing the color of my persona.
Soft.  Passionate…..
                    liar.
You killed him and the others,
               Sweet, the taste of revenge.
When I saw you; day….
               Melted snow, cold.
I was so cold, blue eyes radiated such
sickening beauty, wanting-lust.
Affaid at first, come closer.  The look.
               A body.  Unhuman.  Perfect.
She was unearthly immortal.  Undying.  Sapient.
               Love.
I never fogot that day---I always knew
               liar.
                    my death.

Tilley
Maine State Prison

Box of Happy

Box of Happy

At age four life was no bore, for there was much to explore

playing on the floor, taking old junk clock’s apart to their core.

Granny and Grandaddy did their best to keep me occupied while

Momma worked at the sewing factory.  They were heavenly Saints

whom precious care wouldn’t allow mischief to dare.

I would watch “Hee haw” and drink Granddaddy’s Tea, and he

would joke and tickle me till I laughed so hard I couldn’t See!

It was a Joy each night seeing Momma’s car lights shining bright.  I

knew my love had come for me once again, and we would hug and

kiss like long lost kin.

One night when Momma returned to me late, I rushed to open the

door, I couldn’t wait.

She greeted me with her bright smile and a little box in her small

hands.  Inside was a Shepherd puppy whipping his tail against the

sides.  He was the happiest dog I ever saw.

What a lucky lad I was to have such a wonderful and precious Ma!

By Tony Owen Du’Pree (FLA REP CJCC)

In memory of Millie Presley, May 22, 1942-April 22, 2007

A Precious Saint, Dedicated mother and Active Christian-

Patriot and Nationalist, Die-Hard Loyalist, Racecar Driver, Legendary Dancer, Naturelover Especialy Pensacola Beach, Shrimp boat Capt on Pensacola Bay (Boat Name-Rambler Rose), Folk Singer and Artist, Natural Healer, Comedian, Good Samaritan, Eastern Star, Favorite Hymn-One Day At A Time; Whitty, Cute, Beautiful, Elegant, Charming, Imapireing, Highly Intelligent, Prescious Memory Maker.

In The Service Of The King Jesus Christ!