Novel & Cerita Poems Of Prison

Ejay was ushered into a cell within the confines of the maximum-security prison, the iron bars a stark testament to the formidable nature of his lifelong incarceration. The environment was sterile and austere, devoid of comfort or reprieve. The clang of metal doors, the echoes of stern commands, and the high walls painted a grim reality that Ejay would now call home—a world defined by strict routines, confinement, and the weight of his irreversible sentence. "Goodbye freedom," Ejay murmured quietly to himself as the heavy prison door clanged shut behind him, sealing off the outside world. The weight of those two words encapsulated the enormity of his newfound reality—a life devoid of liberty

The verdict come out and they were sentenced 10 years in prison. The first week of her arrival, she was frequently beaten into a pulp by her fellow cellmates and she couldn't even fight back because she was having difficulty in moving. She suffered too much which made her think of the days that she used to be free. The days that she spent ruining someone's life just to achieve her ambitions. It never occurred to her that she will end up miserable and even experience the life in jail for crossing the lines she shouldn't have. She was now feeling the aftermath of her deeds from the past.

The prisoners’ voices sound uptight but yet stifled from the space that conceals the convicts. The sage's cell is not what she is used to. The steel foundation is covered in bronze rust but on top of that rust is old, dried-out blood from the earlier visit to the cell. Align the right side of the cage is an old worn and torn brown blanket with a sandbag-like pillow on the helm where the blanket resides. The right-hand corner of the space has one bucket for lavatory uses. Salavanta sits in the middle of the foundation. She wears nothing but a brown, washed-out jumpsuit that covers her entire body. Her knees are pressed up to her chest and her arms are wrapped around her bottom limbs which ke

Eloise’s POV: The cells is probably the filthiest place in the pack house. While everything above these old cages are filled with luxurious pieces from floor to the damn ceiling, everything down here gathers dust and filth. What’s more, I feel like the prisoners here were plucked and tossed into the pit of the abyss, never to be seen or heard from again. And it reeks of blood and feces that can never be seen clearly as not a single ray of sunlight touches these dark cells.

Better than nothing. Kael jerks his chin forward, silent, steady. The prisoner drags himself upright, one hand pressed tight over his bleeding ribs, shard flashing like a last prayer. No words. No time. We move. I don’t know if we’re running toward freedom or just deeper into something that will wear our skins like trophies. It doesn’t matter. The only way out is through.

“We’ll call a doctor. We’ll figure this out. We’re gonna fight this.” But Brielle didn’t move. She just stood there—hand on her stomach, her name finally her own again—realizing that some prisons weren’t made of walls or rings or contracts. Some were made of biology. Some were growing inside her. To be continued...

The air was thick with the stench of death and unwashed bodies, a suffocating mix that clung to my skin. The moment we stepped in, the prisoners stirred. Low growls and deranged whispers filled the space, their claws scraping against metal bars as they reached out, desperate for something. As I walked through the prison, the voices of the other prisoners rose like a chorus of the damned and forgotten. “You’re one of us now!” Their voices were hoarse, broken, twisted with something between mockery and truth. “Shut up, you animals!” the guard snapped, his voice dripping with disgust.

she asks. “Trapped,” I say. “And weirdly…less trapped? At least now the prison has a calendar.” She flops down beside me. “We’ll mark off days like a teen drama,” she says. “Circle ‘End of Devilsitting’ in red.” I laugh, then sigh. “I’m going to write so many songs about this,” I mutter. “That’s how we win,” she says. “Ink and microphones.” The landline rings. We both jump.

I’m never even going to see that camp, because I have been sodomized or sucked off over a hundred times at this point in my life, even excluding the already pardoned acts I performed on Christian while under enthrallment. The worst part of this prison is the noises in the night – insidious whispers keeping me from rest. There’s an evil energy to this supposed holy place. The only human sounds came when a whip was coming down in the cells down the hall from me. Another man was giving confession that day -- grunting, then screaming, screaming until his voice gave out.

"How many people?" "Hundreds over the past decade. Maybe thousands. The official records have been altered, but I've been keeping my own count." Isabella's face was pale in the moonlight. "The prisoners in the dungeons right now? Three of them are teenagers whose only crime was writing poetry that suggested wolves could be governed through wisdom rather than fear." "Poetry." Ferdinand's voice was hollow with horror. "He's going to make me execute teenagers for writing poetry." "He's going to make you execute anyone who represents the possibility of alternative leadership. Anyone who might inspire the people to believe they deserve better than fear and oppression."