We got to get outta here But no one brought ropes! The wall is a shoebox And we are all heels Tied up right So we don’t slip off If we snuck out, nice & quiet We might end up seeing All the slave runners Who sent their kids to Uni On the back of our 300 minutes And once a week visits Then who could tell Which was the bad guy And who maybe…
I first heard your voice when I was 15 Had no idea what it was to be freeSheriffs kicking in doors, leaving furniture in the streets Learning you could starve if you didn’t have the means All the saints taught me, listen to no worldly kings Principal, coaches & priests, all the same things When the police blinded me with war chemicals laughter was my partner, I hadn’t broken my rulesAfter god went away, Anarchy…
If words are as dangerous as bullets and sharp as knivesCan we start filling the pages?grinding our pencils to stubsTurning ink into guillotinesprose the ropes onto their wristand rhyme these prison walls to pastecause nothing else seems to be workingheads aren’t rolling, the streets are on holidaymaybe enough words can sparka million fires in our heartswhich would create a million fires in the banksa million convicts in the streetsNot giving a fuck about a voters…
Today I’m sitting in this cockroach-infested Cesspool called USP Atlanta. Many political prisoners have come through here, if he had survived Willem VanSpronsen would have potentially come through here as well. Instead he offered up his life and the state was more than happy enough to seize it, one less headache for them. I’ve been thinking about him, his action, reading his writings and motives. My heart has ached for him because I know how…
Oh prison You must think so poorly of me Think I’m weak enough to fold tisk tisk I’m not a fucking inmate, I’m a captive even if I spend 50 years here, my humanity stays I won’t hate those that you sucked into your trap keep your ‘cars’ chap, I can’t be bothered you’re a petulant waste of time Not converting for me, no head shaves or Qurans God aint real, neither is white power my happiness is mine and…
Chelsea chelsea chelsea They kept the keys within reach Desperate to hurt you Fiending for vengeance The main news focuses on a rapist While you focus on justice Unbending in your ethics Maybe they thought you soft Forgetting your iron core Striking while most vulnerable Promising, if you talk then you walk How they rage out at your reserve A jaw welded shut Only allowing out dissident words You’ve seen their hatred, felt the venom…
here is a poem Eric wrote more recently: Can I Live? One time can I touch this grass Feel that breeze That refuses to blow down these walls Can I be angry, break anything! Or passionate? Can I let that passion grow Like a poisonous vine To be wrapped around my enemies necks Can I live MY anarchy, even if I’m flawed Can my rebel heart pump revolutionary blood the way I FEEL it,…
A poem about Erics experience at CCA I am pacing in my cell My skin is still on fire from the paper spray that I was bathed in 8 days ago No clean clothes have been provided, no shower either I am scared because I don’t understand the process or the noises, or the smells Don’t understand why they aren’t giving me a shower or a fucking towel, or…
Last week, Eric was thrown into the hole and his cell was trashed. Among other things, a bunch of letters went missing and were destroyed. He is now out of the hole and wants to let folks know that if you wrote him in the weeks leading to the 1st of June he lost your letter and that you should reach back out if you would like :). Below is a poem written while EK was…
I had never heard the term ‘Dry Snitching’ before coming to prison, but the concept is very clear, it’s indirect tattling. Dry snitching is telling on someone in an oblique, round about way. That may sound low key or not a big deal, but trust me when I say that dry snitching will get you hurt, it is fucking hell. If you do this, you are ratting. Let’s say you’re not supposed to have pillows…