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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison

Prison Blog: I'll Never Walk Alone

With two days left in this fine establishment, I’m feeling the love. On February 27th, my move to HMP Fosten Hall will take place.


The amount of staff and prisoners who have been coming to see me in order to wish me luck, has been very moving. I’ve spent the last six years here at HMP Peterborough and feel like a piece of the furniture.


I came here with a bad reputation, a hard ass and trouble maker, however, I’m now seen as a solid member of the prison population. A person others look to for advice or support. Staff who have seen me through this life altering change have told me how sad they are to see me leave, yet pleased because this move is a step closer to my release.


I am touched to the very core, by the kindness and good lucks from these people. I have seen staff and prisoners come and go, now it’s my turn.


To all who have walked this chapter of my life with me, thank you. Forever have you left a footprint on my heart.


As the song goes, ‘I’ll never walk alone.’ Here is to new support, new challenges, fears and triumphs. PoetsIN, no worries. I’ll still be around. You lot can’t get rid of me that easy. Plans are slowly coming into place, so that I can continue to write and get my work posted.


I look forward to task 45, it may be a little late due to post, but it will arrive and I will write you all some more awesome work!


See you all soon.


~Squeakypeewee01


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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison
Prison Blog: I'll Never Walk Alone
With two days left in this fine establishment, I’m feeling the love. On February 27th, my move to HMP Fosten Hall will take place.

The amount of staff and prisoners who have been coming to see me in order to wish me luck, has been very moving. I’ve spent the last six years here at HMP Peterborough and feel like a piece of the furniture.

I came here with a bad reputation, a hard ass and trouble maker, however, I’m now seen as a solid member of the prison population. A person others look to for advice or support. Staff who have seen me through this life altering change have told me how sad they are to see me leave, yet pleased because this move is a step closer to my release.

I am touched to the very core, by the kindness and good lucks from these people. I have seen staff and prisoners come and go, now it’s my turn.

To all who have walked this chapter of my life with me, thank you. Forever have you left a footprint on my heart.

As the song goes, ‘I’ll never walk alone.’ Here is to new support, new challenges, fears and triumphs. PoetsIN, no worries. I’ll still be around. You lot can’t get rid of me that easy. Plans are slowly coming into place, so that I can continue to write and get my work posted.

I look forward to task 45, it may be a little late due to post, but it will arrive and I will write you all some more awesome work!

See you all soon.

~Squeakypeewee01

#prose  #LettersFromPrison  #prisonblog  #newjourney 
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Written by carolinemills in portal Stream of Consciousness

In the beginning was the word, and I—like a god—created new Earths, new Suns, and new beings with mere words. I brought kings and governments and theologies into existence, myths and cults and countries. But I am not alone in my artistic omnipotence—there is a whole pantheon of gods beside me—poets, authors, writers—we are the deities in disguise.

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Written by carolinemills in portal Stream of Consciousness
In the beginning was the word, and I—like a god—created new Earths, new Suns, and new beings with mere words. I brought kings and governments and theologies into existence, myths and cults and countries. But I am not alone in my artistic omnipotence—there is a whole pantheon of gods beside me—poets, authors, writers—we are the deities in disguise.
#philosophy  #prose 
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Written by LuLuBean in portal Letters From Prison

Strange

We provided two images from the prison art department, asking the poetsinprison to write a piece inspired by them.


Me, strange? Well I suppose compared to you, yes I am. With my eyes that are purple, flecked with orange and much larger than yours. Well, I have a lot more to see and observe. Compared to your soft, squishy skin, my hard-textured molding is rather strange.


The way my outer shell color to express my feelings can be quite strange to those who don’t understand its meaning. My unmoving lips shine and glisten, but say nothing. Yes, tis very different to your pink, gooey lips that have so much to say.


The top of my head contains not one hair. It’s smooth and moist, yes I suppose that is somewhat strange. And today you see me leaking thick, black liquid from my eyes. This is how I cry; yes, I’m crying right now. Why is that you ask?


Well, although I may seem strange to you, it is your whole species that I find strange and very, very sad. I am a cosmic commentator, I whiz around the universe, quickly observing from a distance how various life forms have evolved and existed throughout the eons.


Today I have come back to Earth to observe how this beautiful planet, with so many wonderful life forms, is existing at this point in time.


I attempt to observe without judgement or emotion, but today, I can’t. What I have seen has touched my core and I weep for humanity. Of all the life forms that I have observed throughout the universe, it seems you humans have a capacity for inflicting pain and suffering like no other. Throughout your history, time and time again, war –the systematic slaughtering of human beings seems to define each civilization.


Yes, other species on your planet fight each other; for territory, for food, for mates. Yet humans seem to fight over something that is uniquely human: greed, fueled by ego. Your history shows that war brings out the worst in you, you can’t handle war. You’re just not mature enough for it. Once you start, you can’t stop.


You humans have something dangerous in you. I fear that one day, on my rounds back to earth, you will have destroyed yourselves because of your obsession over war. I hope that you will evolve past using war to settle disputes, but I fear you will destroy yourselves before you get there.


So, yes, to you I am strange. I look different, I exist differently to you, but to me, humans –you are the strange ones.

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Written by LuLuBean in portal Letters From Prison
Strange
We provided two images from the prison art department, asking the poetsinprison to write a piece inspired by them.

Me, strange? Well I suppose compared to you, yes I am. With my eyes that are purple, flecked with orange and much larger than yours. Well, I have a lot more to see and observe. Compared to your soft, squishy skin, my hard-textured molding is rather strange.

The way my outer shell color to express my feelings can be quite strange to those who don’t understand its meaning. My unmoving lips shine and glisten, but say nothing. Yes, tis very different to your pink, gooey lips that have so much to say.

The top of my head contains not one hair. It’s smooth and moist, yes I suppose that is somewhat strange. And today you see me leaking thick, black liquid from my eyes. This is how I cry; yes, I’m crying right now. Why is that you ask?

Well, although I may seem strange to you, it is your whole species that I find strange and very, very sad. I am a cosmic commentator, I whiz around the universe, quickly observing from a distance how various life forms have evolved and existed throughout the eons.

Today I have come back to Earth to observe how this beautiful planet, with so many wonderful life forms, is existing at this point in time.

I attempt to observe without judgement or emotion, but today, I can’t. What I have seen has touched my core and I weep for humanity. Of all the life forms that I have observed throughout the universe, it seems you humans have a capacity for inflicting pain and suffering like no other. Throughout your history, time and time again, war –the systematic slaughtering of human beings seems to define each civilization.

Yes, other species on your planet fight each other; for territory, for food, for mates. Yet humans seem to fight over something that is uniquely human: greed, fueled by ego. Your history shows that war brings out the worst in you, you can’t handle war. You’re just not mature enough for it. Once you start, you can’t stop.

You humans have something dangerous in you. I fear that one day, on my rounds back to earth, you will have destroyed yourselves because of your obsession over war. I hope that you will evolve past using war to settle disputes, but I fear you will destroy yourselves before you get there.

So, yes, to you I am strange. I look different, I exist differently to you, but to me, humans –you are the strange ones.
#prose  #strange  #LettersFromPrison  #inspiredby 
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Written by SLPens in portal Letters From Prison

Paul's Dilemma

We provided two images from the prison art department, asking poetsinprison to write a piece inspired by them.


Paul sits and stares outside the window. He feels really hurt as Katie has not rung him for 2 days. He is so worried that she might not talk to him again, as he told her his true feelings, what he’d done to his ex girlfriend, and the reason behind what he’d done.


He makes a cup of tea and sits down to try and relax, but there’s so many thoughts running through his mind. He hasn’t slept since he told Katie, but he feels so desperate for her to ring him. Plus he has tried to contact her over and over.


He lays down after his cuppa and tries to sleep. Suddenly, the phone rings, which jolts him as he’s falling asleep. Rushing to pick it up, he trips and falls. Panicking, as he feels terrified in case the phone stops ringing. He drags himself the rest of the way, picks up the phone, and says hello, but there’s no one there. He keeps repeating hello as he thinks there must be a faulty connection.


Paul hangs up the phone and dials 1471, only to be told it’s a withheld number, so he gets so angry that he throws the phone across the room and it smashes into 2 pieces. How will Paul ever get to speak to Katie? How will he cope now without a phone? What will he do next? Will Katie come round to see him? What is really haunting Paul?


He doesn’t know her new address, as she moved into a new place yesterday. Was he right to tell her what he’d done, or is it going to haunt him forever? Who knows.


Only Paul has the answers.

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Written by SLPens in portal Letters From Prison
Paul's Dilemma
We provided two images from the prison art department, asking poetsinprison to write a piece inspired by them.

Paul sits and stares outside the window. He feels really hurt as Katie has not rung him for 2 days. He is so worried that she might not talk to him again, as he told her his true feelings, what he’d done to his ex girlfriend, and the reason behind what he’d done.

He makes a cup of tea and sits down to try and relax, but there’s so many thoughts running through his mind. He hasn’t slept since he told Katie, but he feels so desperate for her to ring him. Plus he has tried to contact her over and over.

He lays down after his cuppa and tries to sleep. Suddenly, the phone rings, which jolts him as he’s falling asleep. Rushing to pick it up, he trips and falls. Panicking, as he feels terrified in case the phone stops ringing. He drags himself the rest of the way, picks up the phone, and says hello, but there’s no one there. He keeps repeating hello as he thinks there must be a faulty connection.

Paul hangs up the phone and dials 1471, only to be told it’s a withheld number, so he gets so angry that he throws the phone across the room and it smashes into 2 pieces. How will Paul ever get to speak to Katie? How will he cope now without a phone? What will he do next? Will Katie come round to see him? What is really haunting Paul?

He doesn’t know her new address, as she moved into a new place yesterday. Was he right to tell her what he’d done, or is it going to haunt him forever? Who knows.

Only Paul has the answers.
#prose  #LettersFromPrison  #inspiredby 
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Written by mags in portal Romance & Erotica

A Holy Affair

Looking at her; it is the first time I have believed in a God.

I worship the curves of her lower body -

My fingers write hymns against the glowing skin of her hips

And I whisper prayers between the flesh of her thighs.

I make a confession where her thigh meets her pubic bone.

My tongue recites the gospel against her soft, aching flesh.

She tugs at my roots, calling out to a God I have now seen -

And I sacrifice myself to her happily.

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Written by mags in portal Romance & Erotica
A Holy Affair
Looking at her; it is the first time I have believed in a God.
I worship the curves of her lower body -
My fingers write hymns against the glowing skin of her hips
And I whisper prayers between the flesh of her thighs.
I make a confession where her thigh meets her pubic bone.
My tongue recites the gospel against her soft, aching flesh.
She tugs at my roots, calling out to a God I have now seen -
And I sacrifice myself to her happily.
#romance  #poetry  #prose  #love  #erotica 
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Written by Syne

Laughing Gas Giant

There is a planet that has no core

It has no ground or solid floor

It has no land but it does have mass

It's made out of very dense laughing gas

The inhabitants, well, they cannot fly

They cannot teleport or glide

They have no jets to self propel

And there's never a breeze to give them help

So they bobble and float quite helplessly

At the planet's center of gravity

Yet they seem amused in their crumpled mass

Or maybe it's just the laughing gas

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Written by Syne
Laughing Gas Giant
There is a planet that has no core
It has no ground or solid floor
It has no land but it does have mass
It's made out of very dense laughing gas
The inhabitants, well, they cannot fly
They cannot teleport or glide
They have no jets to self propel
And there's never a breeze to give them help
So they bobble and float quite helplessly
At the planet's center of gravity
Yet they seem amused in their crumpled mass
Or maybe it's just the laughing gas
#fantasy  #scifi  #fiction  #childrens  #poetry  #science  #prose  #humor  #funny  #space  #universe  #planet 
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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison

Injustice

Write a story where you have been a victim of injustice.


The day of the trial began.


He pleaded not guilty to drinking and driving, and causing death by dangerous driving. How could he say that? My son died due to this evil man behind the wheel of a stolen car.


As I sit in the public viewing area, this man standing in the witness box tries to explain his actions.


‘I didn’t realize I was over the limit, it was a mate’s car, I didn’t steal it.’ And so they went on.


My 17 year old was taking his first driving lesson. He wasn’t nervous. I am a single mum and worked extra shifts to pay for a six week, intense driving course. It cost me over £500. Sam’s dad never paid his maintenance, so it was up to me to support the two of us.


Passing his test would help both Sam and myself. He had found a little run-about and paid £50 for it. The hours he spent fixing it up made me so proud.


Sam would have more freedom to hang out with his mates. Not wanting me to run him around all the time, after all, it’s not cool at 17 to be seen with your mum. I could understand that, even if I didn’t have to like it.


The night before Sam was killed, we spent an evening talking about all the places he wanted to drive to.


‘I could take the guys to the ‘Down-Load Festival…’


What a rocker. I’ve no idea where his love for punk rock came from.


It was lovely to see him so excited. So young in many ways, but a man he was becoming. In many of his mannerisms, I could see his father. Only the gentle side, not the violent man he was so often. I prayed every night that Sam would be a positive and loving husband one day. The total opposite of his dad.


Second day of trial.


The defense team gave a speech about the “so-called” corrupt police officer, who tampered with the breathalyzer screening machine. How all the charges should be dropped due to this technicality. I could see the judge looking through his paperwork, saw the jury making notes.


The morning of Sam’s first driving lesson made him giddy with excitement. The night before, we went through the Highway Code. I tested him on road signs, and how to check over the basics of the car before setting off.


At 10am, Sam’s instructor parked outside our small, two-bed bungalow. It was all I could afford on the small income I received from my job in the local council offices. Kev pushed the horn and Sam came bounding down the stairs. A huge grin on his face.


‘Drive safe’ I told him. ‘Don’t wreck Kev’s car.’ We laughed together and hugged. Then he left.


I waved to Kev. He was a good man. I’d known Kev for years now. Her had been a great friend when Sam’s dad left. Always helping fix things, no expecting anything but a cold beer and chat. Kev was married with a son a few years older than Sam. Despite the age gap, both lads got on well. Daniel was a good role model and Sam looked up to him.


It was hard when Daniel went to Uni. Yet, Sam kept in touch and couldn’t wait to drive himself to Leeds Uni to visit his friend.


Day three of the trial.


It was the crown prosecution’s turn to open the day with all the evidence stacked against this man. CCTV footage showed him coming out of a pub, swaying all down the road. He was very drunk by all appearances, or he was a great actor.


Pictures were shown of the wreckage of both the cars after the crash. The coroner was on the witness stand, describing the injuries caused that ended my son’s life. A sob caught me in my throat. Again, I looked at the jury. Scribbling their notes, some looks visibly upset by what they heard.


This monster murdered my son. Hate consumed me. I wanted to scream at him as he sat calmly listening to the evidence that would surely send him to prison.


At 11:30am, on that fateful day, I got a call from the police at my door.


‘Miss, there has been an incident involving your son. May we come in?’


Sam? He was a good boy. What could have happened for the police to be here?


We sat in the living room, cluttered with Sam’s video games and car parts. I was acutely aware of the mess that, before, was just so normal.


A female family liaison officer, introduced herself and explained that Sam and his driving instructor had been involved in a collision. Both Kev and Sam were killed instantly.


My whole world turned upside down. Numb. I hardly heard anymore after that. My baby was dead.


I wasn't a drinker. An occasional glass of wine or a beer during the summer months. Right now I needed something strong. I stood and made my way to the kitchen, took out the bottle of brandy left over from the previous Christmas, poured a glass and downed it in one. The burn of the drink in my stomach reawakened my senses. Sounds became loud. I could hear my heartbeat, feel the cold glass in my hand, and see the police officer come to stand by my side.


I collapsed into her arms. This could not be happening. I asked where Sam was. I needed to see him. The police advised me that it wouldn’t be a good idea. It shouldn’t be the last image burned into my mind of my beautiful child.


Day four of the trial.


The jury’s decision. They had been dismissed late in the morning to consider the verdict. By mid-afternoon, they come back into the courtroom. I searched faces to see if I could tell what decision they had come to, but all I saw was stone expressions. No emotions passed over those faces.


‘We find the defendant not guilty of the charge of drunk driving.’


What? The color drained from my face. How could that be? The breathalyzer showed he was three times over the limit.


‘We find the defendant guilty of dangerous driving.’


Result! The scum bag had been found guilty for causing my son’s and Kev’s death. That would hold a hefty sentence. Justice would be served.


Kev’s wife and son sat by my side and we all held hands as the sentences was about to be passed. As the judge began to speak, he looked to the public gallery and then to the defendant. I held my breath as he began to speak. The moment I’d been waiting six months for.


‘You have been found guilty by your peers. I now sentence you to 18 months, minus the six months you have served… blah, blah, blah.’


The defendant has 13 months left to serve. He killed two innocent people and all he got was 18 months. Where is the justice? A lifetime ban on his driving license and a cozy short-term in prison.


My boy and my friend; a son, father, husband… gone forever and for what? A drunken joyride has ruined lives, taken away everything I have. Justice? For me, it hasn’t been done. Now I fight the law and the government, to crack down on these people. Justice will one day be handed out for others.


My ex-husband moved from a closed condition prison to an open one. Not only does he get help, he gets freedom. I’m left to pick up the shards of my life in the best way I can. No help for me as council funding is too small to improve mental health facilities.


A year later.


I am invited to a morning TV show to talk about my campaign to increase prison sentences on dangerous driving offenses. People were becoming interested in the change of law. Called Sam’s Law, anyone convicted of this crime now have to spend a minimum 10 years behind bars. If death is caused, then a minimum of 15 years before parole can be considered.


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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison
Injustice
Write a story where you have been a victim of injustice.

The day of the trial began.

He pleaded not guilty to drinking and driving, and causing death by dangerous driving. How could he say that? My son died due to this evil man behind the wheel of a stolen car.

As I sit in the public viewing area, this man standing in the witness box tries to explain his actions.

‘I didn’t realize I was over the limit, it was a mate’s car, I didn’t steal it.’ And so they went on.

My 17 year old was taking his first driving lesson. He wasn’t nervous. I am a single mum and worked extra shifts to pay for a six week, intense driving course. It cost me over £500. Sam’s dad never paid his maintenance, so it was up to me to support the two of us.

Passing his test would help both Sam and myself. He had found a little run-about and paid £50 for it. The hours he spent fixing it up made me so proud.

Sam would have more freedom to hang out with his mates. Not wanting me to run him around all the time, after all, it’s not cool at 17 to be seen with your mum. I could understand that, even if I didn’t have to like it.

The night before Sam was killed, we spent an evening talking about all the places he wanted to drive to.

‘I could take the guys to the ‘Down-Load Festival…’

What a rocker. I’ve no idea where his love for punk rock came from.

It was lovely to see him so excited. So young in many ways, but a man he was becoming. In many of his mannerisms, I could see his father. Only the gentle side, not the violent man he was so often. I prayed every night that Sam would be a positive and loving husband one day. The total opposite of his dad.

Second day of trial.

The defense team gave a speech about the “so-called” corrupt police officer, who tampered with the breathalyzer screening machine. How all the charges should be dropped due to this technicality. I could see the judge looking through his paperwork, saw the jury making notes.

The morning of Sam’s first driving lesson made him giddy with excitement. The night before, we went through the Highway Code. I tested him on road signs, and how to check over the basics of the car before setting off.

At 10am, Sam’s instructor parked outside our small, two-bed bungalow. It was all I could afford on the small income I received from my job in the local council offices. Kev pushed the horn and Sam came bounding down the stairs. A huge grin on his face.

‘Drive safe’ I told him. ‘Don’t wreck Kev’s car.’ We laughed together and hugged. Then he left.

I waved to Kev. He was a good man. I’d known Kev for years now. Her had been a great friend when Sam’s dad left. Always helping fix things, no expecting anything but a cold beer and chat. Kev was married with a son a few years older than Sam. Despite the age gap, both lads got on well. Daniel was a good role model and Sam looked up to him.

It was hard when Daniel went to Uni. Yet, Sam kept in touch and couldn’t wait to drive himself to Leeds Uni to visit his friend.

Day three of the trial.

It was the crown prosecution’s turn to open the day with all the evidence stacked against this man. CCTV footage showed him coming out of a pub, swaying all down the road. He was very drunk by all appearances, or he was a great actor.

Pictures were shown of the wreckage of both the cars after the crash. The coroner was on the witness stand, describing the injuries caused that ended my son’s life. A sob caught me in my throat. Again, I looked at the jury. Scribbling their notes, some looks visibly upset by what they heard.

This monster murdered my son. Hate consumed me. I wanted to scream at him as he sat calmly listening to the evidence that would surely send him to prison.

At 11:30am, on that fateful day, I got a call from the police at my door.

‘Miss, there has been an incident involving your son. May we come in?’

Sam? He was a good boy. What could have happened for the police to be here?

We sat in the living room, cluttered with Sam’s video games and car parts. I was acutely aware of the mess that, before, was just so normal.

A female family liaison officer, introduced herself and explained that Sam and his driving instructor had been involved in a collision. Both Kev and Sam were killed instantly.

My whole world turned upside down. Numb. I hardly heard anymore after that. My baby was dead.

I wasn't a drinker. An occasional glass of wine or a beer during the summer months. Right now I needed something strong. I stood and made my way to the kitchen, took out the bottle of brandy left over from the previous Christmas, poured a glass and downed it in one. The burn of the drink in my stomach reawakened my senses. Sounds became loud. I could hear my heartbeat, feel the cold glass in my hand, and see the police officer come to stand by my side.

I collapsed into her arms. This could not be happening. I asked where Sam was. I needed to see him. The police advised me that it wouldn’t be a good idea. It shouldn’t be the last image burned into my mind of my beautiful child.

Day four of the trial.

The jury’s decision. They had been dismissed late in the morning to consider the verdict. By mid-afternoon, they come back into the courtroom. I searched faces to see if I could tell what decision they had come to, but all I saw was stone expressions. No emotions passed over those faces.

‘We find the defendant not guilty of the charge of drunk driving.’

What? The color drained from my face. How could that be? The breathalyzer showed he was three times over the limit.

‘We find the defendant guilty of dangerous driving.’

Result! The scum bag had been found guilty for causing my son’s and Kev’s death. That would hold a hefty sentence. Justice would be served.

Kev’s wife and son sat by my side and we all held hands as the sentences was about to be passed. As the judge began to speak, he looked to the public gallery and then to the defendant. I held my breath as he began to speak. The moment I’d been waiting six months for.

‘You have been found guilty by your peers. I now sentence you to 18 months, minus the six months you have served… blah, blah, blah.’

The defendant has 13 months left to serve. He killed two innocent people and all he got was 18 months. Where is the justice? A lifetime ban on his driving license and a cozy short-term in prison.

My boy and my friend; a son, father, husband… gone forever and for what? A drunken joyride has ruined lives, taken away everything I have. Justice? For me, it hasn’t been done. Now I fight the law and the government, to crack down on these people. Justice will one day be handed out for others.

My ex-husband moved from a closed condition prison to an open one. Not only does he get help, he gets freedom. I’m left to pick up the shards of my life in the best way I can. No help for me as council funding is too small to improve mental health facilities.

A year later.

I am invited to a morning TV show to talk about my campaign to increase prison sentences on dangerous driving offenses. People were becoming interested in the change of law. Called Sam’s Law, anyone convicted of this crime now have to spend a minimum 10 years behind bars. If death is caused, then a minimum of 15 years before parole can be considered.

#prose  #injustice  #LettersFromPrison  #MADD 
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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Rhye in portal Fiction

Sorry for being your imperfect child;

I never felt good enough from the beginning. Although, showered in your praise and constant affirmation, my life is still dull and grey. Monochrome hours pass, and,

I feel absolutely nothing. My heart has no twinge, no ache nor pain—and what little "effects" I feel from my "happy pills" have been doing shit close to nothing. Every piece of my puzzle was lost to the ages, trying to figure out who was the real me and how I could get her back to achieve the happiness that... was once mine. Though, I may have smiled on the outside, my insides were like they are now: broken. 

Shit, at least I tried. I tried making everyone else satisfied with the life I'd already given up on. Everyone else could wear a jovial grin, while my eyes were covered in despair, most of them watching as I slowly dissolved into nothing. Many times I wanted to jump off the roof of the building, and hope my brains scatter about below; or run into traffic, pleading for sweet release—but, getting nothing, except excrutiating, repressed memories that now mean something to me. Don't make those faces. Don't snivel and snort, with salty tears running down your scrunched up expression. Please, don't do this now. You're going to make me regret the decision I made. 

Whether it was from a noose, or from a bullet wound, either way—I would end up here. The voices wouldn't relent, and the pill bottles were doing nothing but warping the reality around me. I dreamed of my assailants, donned in black, scratching and clawing my eyes out, leaving nothing but gaping, bleeding holes. Then when I awoke, the headaches from the night's endeavor gradually took over, forcing me to sleep again. Fuck this. Why are you all starting to care now? When I've already...

Died?

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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Rhye in portal Fiction
Sorry for being your imperfect child;
I never felt good enough from the beginning. Although, showered in your praise and constant affirmation, my life is still dull and grey. Monochrome hours pass, and,
I feel absolutely nothing. My heart has no twinge, no ache nor pain—and what little "effects" I feel from my "happy pills" have been doing shit close to nothing. Every piece of my puzzle was lost to the ages, trying to figure out who was the real me and how I could get her back to achieve the happiness that... was once mine. Though, I may have smiled on the outside, my insides were like they are now: broken. 

Shit, at least I tried. I tried making everyone else satisfied with the life I'd already given up on. Everyone else could wear a jovial grin, while my eyes were covered in despair, most of them watching as I slowly dissolved into nothing. Many times I wanted to jump off the roof of the building, and hope my brains scatter about below; or run into traffic, pleading for sweet release—but, getting nothing, except excrutiating, repressed memories that now mean something to me. Don't make those faces. Don't snivel and snort, with salty tears running down your scrunched up expression. Please, don't do this now. You're going to make me regret the decision I made. 

Whether it was from a noose, or from a bullet wound, either way—I would end up here. The voices wouldn't relent, and the pill bottles were doing nothing but warping the reality around me. I dreamed of my assailants, donned in black, scratching and clawing my eyes out, leaving nothing but gaping, bleeding holes. Then when I awoke, the headaches from the night's endeavor gradually took over, forcing me to sleep again. Fuck this. Why are you all starting to care now? When I've already...

Died?
#fiction  #prose  #challenge  #depression  #andrometa 
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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by alyptik in portal Poetry & Free Verse

tick tock.

tick tock.

i am too restless to sleep.

Rachmaninoff is playing in the background

it is 4:00am

the clock replies

before i’ve even had a chance to ask.

tick tock.

screams the ennui

screams the insomnia

screams the empty bottle of whisky next to me

lying there

useless and beautiful.

tick tock.

Rachmaninoff crescendos into

something

something that he makes me long for

something that i wish i was able

to make other people long for too.

something that

something.

tick tock.

is the sound of the liquid draining

as i take a long swig from epiphany

from the bottle of vodka i had forgotten about

until now.

tick tock.

Rachmaninoff segues into Op. 30 “Alla Breve”

the piano longs for the strings

the winds long for the brass

yet all i long for is sleep.

tick tock.

more vodka more inebriation

more inebriation more fatigue

until sleep is finally able to take me

is what is supposed to happen

is my rationality.

if only.

tick tock.

i take another drink.

now the vodka is half empty.

i feel good.

i feel happy.

i feel

everything but tired.

fuck.

tick tock.

screams the mocking clock.

the brass section enters at last

Rachmaninoff crescendos once more

the angry denouement approaches

in my head i can see the conductor sweating

i can see the solo trumpet about to have an aneurysm

tick tock.

drowns out the blaring euphoniums

drowns out the screeching trombones

drowns out the melancholy of the crickets

outside my window

outside this feeling

outside.

tick tock.

it asks.

glug glug

i reply.

tick tock.

Rachmaninoff finishes

the vodka lies empty

i can shamelessly admit

i am drunk.

tick tock.

i am too drunk to care.

too drunk retaliate

too drunk to sleep.

tick tock.

tick tock.

the nausea is nothing

i am nothing

nothing is anything

tick tock.

screams the fucking clock.

4:01am.

tick. fucking. tock.

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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by alyptik in portal Poetry & Free Verse
tick tock.
tick tock.

i am too restless to sleep.
Rachmaninoff is playing in the background
it is 4:00am
the clock replies
before i’ve even had a chance to ask.

tick tock.

screams the ennui
screams the insomnia
screams the empty bottle of whisky next to me
lying there
useless and beautiful.

tick tock.

Rachmaninoff crescendos into
something
something that he makes me long for
something that i wish i was able
to make other people long for too.
something that
something.

tick tock.

is the sound of the liquid draining
as i take a long swig from epiphany
from the bottle of vodka i had forgotten about
until now.

tick tock.

Rachmaninoff segues into Op. 30 “Alla Breve”
the piano longs for the strings
the winds long for the brass
yet all i long for is sleep.

tick tock.

more vodka more inebriation
more inebriation more fatigue
until sleep is finally able to take me
is what is supposed to happen
is my rationality.
if only.

tick tock.

i take another drink.
now the vodka is half empty.
i feel good.
i feel happy.
i feel
everything but tired.
fuck.

tick tock.

screams the mocking clock.
the brass section enters at last
Rachmaninoff crescendos once more
the angry denouement approaches
in my head i can see the conductor sweating
i can see the solo trumpet about to have an aneurysm

tick tock.

drowns out the blaring euphoniums
drowns out the screeching trombones
drowns out the melancholy of the crickets
outside my window
outside this feeling
outside.

tick tock.

it asks.
glug glug
i reply.
tick tock.
Rachmaninoff finishes
the vodka lies empty
i can shamelessly admit
i am drunk.

tick tock.

i am too drunk to care.
too drunk retaliate
too drunk to sleep.

tick tock.
tick tock.

the nausea is nothing
i am nothing
nothing is anything

tick tock.
screams the fucking clock.

4:01am.

tick. fucking. tock.
#nonfiction  #poetry  #prose  #streamofconciousness 
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Written by ALifeWitArt in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Hanging Heavy On Rotten Vines, They Were Snubbed by Heaven Along With Faux Free Will

Creation wrought

Fraternal souls

Enclaved as Holy

To share one body

And held captive to

One fleshy cask

The opposites waltzed

And responded to

A Master above

And one below

Evolving with Madness

For Survival of the Fittest

& The Good versus Bad

Identical portraits

Hung uniquely to reflect

As Evil morphed

From behind coal eyes

Exalting their Truth

And descending away

For their open ears

Were unfairly squared

With angst against

The smoke and static

Collectively clouded

Over a chrysalis cracked

But who emerged?

A lamb turned wolf,

And an angel charred.

The fallen split

Into arms of babes

For their howls of pain

A chameleon's harvest

And into the chalet

Desire was feasted

Because why would God

Create such a dual

From your Mother's womb

And to erupt from Earth

Left behind to roam

The lost and confused

In contradicting realities

And at war in the mirrors

Yes, choice was offered

Disguised within Nature

On a masquerade path

Called The Human Condition

Where some are The Chosen

Through their veiled decisions

But the others are Rootless

With Pleasure smearing their load

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Written by ALifeWitArt in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Hanging Heavy On Rotten Vines, They Were Snubbed by Heaven Along With Faux Free Will
Creation wrought
Fraternal souls
Enclaved as Holy
To share one body
And held captive to
One fleshy cask
The opposites waltzed
And responded to
A Master above
And one below
Evolving with Madness
For Survival of the Fittest
& The Good versus Bad
Identical portraits
Hung uniquely to reflect
As Evil morphed
From behind coal eyes
Exalting their Truth
And descending away
For their open ears
Were unfairly squared
With angst against
The smoke and static
Collectively clouded
Over a chrysalis cracked
But who emerged?
A lamb turned wolf,
And an angel charred
.
The fallen split
Into arms of babes
For their howls of pain
A chameleon's harvest
And into the chalet
Desire was feasted
Because why would God
Create such a dual
From your Mother's womb
And to erupt from Earth
Left behind to roam
The lost and confused
In contradicting realities
And at war in the mirrors

Yes, choice was offered
Disguised within Nature
On a masquerade path
Called The Human Condition
Where some are The Chosen
Through their veiled decisions
But the others are Rootless
With Pleasure smearing their load
#poetry  #philosophy  #mystery  #prose  #spirituality  #culture  #injustice  #toolateforthechallenge 
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