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.


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.
I wont throw snow.
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

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

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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.



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



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.

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

Written by: 
Derek Lindsay
Maine State Prison