by Ghostwrite Mike, Valley State Prison
How do the dangerous few, earn, the right of return?
Turn the page—act our age—work, but not be slaves?
Not be slaves…
Forever purgatoried, tell yo story, text it through the ether—either
We record the history, or they deceive the reader.
See, we are praxis, for those who wield power
For the feel of it. Blessed, if you could deal with it.
Publish every testimony, witness account, to give account
For every syllable—poetry, for the real of it.
Poetry for the real of it…
Books for every word nobody taught us to spell, read, or
Speak out loud. Urchin kids in the crowd,
We talkin convict criminology, radical-type philosophy,
All of us pen-pushin this lifer cyber prophecy.
LWOPs who dropped off the edge a da world
Despite the frontal lobe brain science—
Check the cortex…
Forget not that next to reform, the deformed solutions
They speak of reek of status quo.
Abolition steelo. We know change when we
See it in the circles we form. Born convicted
With community. Nothin that they could do to me.
Could rob me of this dignity, discovered
In prison—despite prison.
So listen when I tell you:
We been free…
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