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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
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