Learn More: Writings from Behind the Wall
Path to Freedom
Tony Harris, MCI Norfolk
How tragic is it to be a "hopeless romantic" while incarcerated?
Hoping that a ray shines and lights up a path to freedom.
"Empty promises" haunting my thoughts of true love—
The cracks in my heart motivated me to pave a path to freedom.
Heartaches sting my chest when I think of matrimony—
Knowing finding a wife— is as hard as finding a path to freedom.
I could not settle for anybody— except the woman of my dreams
As I could not settle for prison — I need a path to freedom.
People say I am crazy for wanting what I need to be happy
But the unexplainable joy in my heart is my path to freedom.
Sorrow tries to steal my peace— it's a relentless thief
I am fighting for tranquility like a path to freedom.
Impossible things have become possible because of my faith
The match to my soul is just another path to freedom.
I am the one that believes in miracles?
The imagination is a path to freedom
Surprised how my blood still pumps through my heart
God's love— allows me to love— it's the path to freedom.
It is I, Tony Harris, the architect of my future
Walking purposefully up my path to freedom.
Solitary Without Confinement
Tony Harris, MCI Norfolk
Surrounded by strangers with no way to escape
Trapped in this man made hell
Men of all ages, colors, sizes, and shapes
Living in cages referred to as cells
To much testosterone, to much bravado
So much trauma, so much pain
Before I close my eyes I know it'll be the same tomorrow
Long faces painted with anger, guilt, shame
A portrait of the oppressed feeling the pressure
Selfishness grows within most when they lose it all
I've seen garbage become men's treasure
The biggest debates and feuds over things so small
Surrounded by people I often feel lonely
With only my faith, peace, and wisdom to console me
A Silent Death
Leon Blunt, MCI Norfolk
I've turned the lights out. Its midnight and its dark in the cell. For the next few hours, I will be completely alone in the Universe. Rather than lay on my bunk, I've choosen to crawl under the concrete desk and sit. For some strange reason, this gives me a different perspective on where I am in the world. The sensations are real: dark, confined, alone. There is nothing to see, and I find myself running a hand over the smooth concrete wall. I picture myself in a casket, buried alive. Surprisingly, I don't feel trapped or in a state of panic. My train of thought seems much sharper and my mind is comfortable enough to wander wherever it desires. I've let go of every worry and my thoughts take me on a journey. Events in my life flash by in thousands of still photos, and in each brief millisecond I play each one out. I recognize my faults and attributes. Not by others standards, but my own. As we grow older and perhaps even wiser, we see life through reflective eyes. What actions seemed prudent so many years ago are not as clear today. Youth can destroy the future. And so, here I sit, entombed by choice. In this small area and entombed by actions in the greater. My physical space in life has been determined. My mental space has yet to be realized.
Who’s the Criminal
It’s getting harder for me to maintain a positive outlook for my future. Its getting harder to maintain my insanity in an environment which demands I act insane. Its getting harder to believe in the words of others. Hell, its getting harder to believe in myself.
Everyday I fight to hold on to the dream. Its getting harder to do so when there's no positive feedback from those who claim to care. I'm beginning to see people for what they truly are - criminals. Criminals who work insidiously to destroy the will to dream. I'm beginning to understand why the prisons of this nation are bursting at the seams with close to 2 million people. If a fraction of this number are victims of lies, deceit, false promises and concern never shown then I can readily understand the psychological scars, pain and disillusionment which can drive a prisoner insane.
It amazes me how people in the free world fail to understand the need for their presence in the lives of those confined. It shocks me even more than those free should feel imposed upon by those imprisoned while declaring their love and concern. I believe the price of a stamp is 37 cents. If so, why is it so hard for a person to write a simple letter that may save a life, a soul, or a mind.
Am I a criminal - alone - because my crime is visibly apparent? Or should those who murder the heart, the soul, the spirit for self - restoration be considered criminals as well? Are they not criminals who lie, deceive or create false hope? What happens to a dream deferred? What happens to the mind of a prisoner who looks for the seed of false hope to grow? Will that expectant mind not wither away like a raisin in the sun? Will it not die upon the discovery of the lie? Who's the criminal? The person who kills the body or the person who kills the mind - the spirit - to be redeemed?
I submit for consideration that perhaps both are equally responsible for the men and women languishing in the cells of this nation. If so - how many criminal acts have you committed (today) with impunity? How many dreams have you destroyed, spirits have you corrupted, or lies have you told? How many packages were never sent? How many visits were never received? Far more importantly - how many criminal acts will others commit as a result, or your own? Who's the criminal?