No more butterflies, flowers, love, and candy-coated lies. I am not a poet.
I’m just a gesture in life, clowning and amusing readers with words. My writing is not ambiguous, hiding truth behind veils. It hasn’t much grammar, rhyme or meter. No form to cast spells on the unsuspecting reader. My writing is often chopped up like heads of cabbages by teachers and editors. Its essence squeezed out like a lemon.
Each morning and night, I look out from this hunk of stone through a thick plastic window, and I see my dreams are the height of nightmares, my goals are the depths of mangled mountains. Death sometimes doesn’t kill you; it only fragments your life.
(Sound of a cell door closing.) These commentaries are recorded by Noelle Hanrahan of Prison Radio.