Poems Of Prison Novels & Stories

The black diamond is cold under my fingers. The prison has no walls anymore. It is within me. And as I close my eyes, a single word resonates in the silence of my soul, a word that is both a curse and a prayer. To them.

Prison is loud. Anybody that tells you prison is quiet has never actually stayed inside one. Metal doors slam all day like angry thunder. Men shout from cell to cell like market women arguing over tomatoes. Somebody is always laughing too loud or cursing somebody’s mother but inside my head everything is calm. Too calm because the moment those iron gates closed behind me I already knew one thing very clearly. This place will not hold me not because I am stronger than prison. Nobody is stronger than prison.

i speak it free like when you spill secrets in a public phone box, insisting that writers send ideas to prison or the literary concentration camp called Book. when will the separation exist? I ask myself so many times the taste of acceptance on my throat threatens the tessitura of an echoing love rolling in the fifth eye of our homelessness father & mother media sister & brother politics call it Fragment Street (it is) because it sutures whoever is right & whichever is the way to the tunnel history: as dialectic as culture caught in a fauxmance w/ the fluid imaginary because shyness

the officer spits, his voice disdainful. I push myself up from the cot, my legs pulsating from the long hours of inactivity. My movement hesitant as I follow the officer through the maze of prison corridors. The air is thick with the scent of sweat, desperation, and despair. Every step I take is a reminder of my captivity, a descent into the murky depths of this living nightmare. We arrive at the prison dining hall, a cavernous chamber filled with a grating of voices, clinking trays, and the acrid odor of food. A long, grimy counter stretches across one side of the hall, where a group of prisoners, clad in identical drab uniforms, lined up to receive their meager rations. The inmates’ faces

She needed him by her side. Bruno spoke with Sondra's parents, believing they had the right to know what was happening with their daughter. "Thank you for informing us. I knew Sondra would end up in trouble sooner or later. We will travel there to see her case, although I don't think there's much we can do. It's clear that she's involved," Bruno said. Emma listened in silence, tears streaming down her face. After all, Sondra was her daughter. Meanwhile, in a prison in Milan, the redhead couldn't believe her luck. She was confined in that prison where the majority of inmates were there due to drug-related issues.

CH 75 Sophia’s Shadow POV: Sophia Night inside the prison always felt heavier than the day. The cold concrete walls seemed to absorb every sound, leaving the corridors wrapped in a strange silence broken only by distant footsteps and the occasional metallic clang of doors locking for the night. Sophia sat on the narrow bed inside her cell, her back resting comfortably against the rough wall. A faint light from the hallway filtered through the iron bars, casting long shadows across the small room. To anyone observing her, she would appear like any other inmate—quiet, contained, and seemingly resigned to her fate.

Quincy There are days you forget you’re in prison. Days when the sky outside the bars turns gold, and the wind that cuts through the cracks in the concrete walls smells like freedom. Days when a laugh lasts more than a second. When their food almost tasted like something other than punishment. Today was not one of those days. Today was the opposite. I was still restricted. Still locked out of yard time. Still branded as the idiot who got caught smuggling. Still hearing whispers from the other inmates that had me clenching my fists under the sheets.

Those useless bastards never failed to amaze me. I lay down on the mattress-- the only furniture inside the cell-- willing the lights to be on; it was my only sense of time in the hell hole. I closed my eyes and started humming a tune from a childhood memory, it might not solve anything but it was a good diversionary tactic, driving away from the earsplitting silence. The night seemed to stretch for far too long, my stomach was already killing me. Though, I doubt the food in the canteen would satisfy my hunger. If only I hadn't lost the cracker from Edmund. That man, what exactly made him so interested in me. Helping me back there, he was a fool to think that I would cooperate with him. I ha

The second cell, the third, and all the way up to the sixth cell he was not happy. Prince Aldridge felt frustrated but held his frustration and composed himself. They reached the seventh cell where a prisoner was sitting on the floor in the middle of the cell with his legs crossed. His arms were bound behind his back and had an iron collar around his neck with five chains chained to it which were attached to the wall.

I used to be ready for anything but inbetween living and anything, there is torture; it is a different form of death. There are bars at my window positioned with close grid spaces. It's where I look out from almost all day. That odd woman has seen me severally sitting on the bed and looking out but she says nothing. She does not seem to mind just like she doesn't mind if I stay in the dark or if I live.