Hotep,
This particular session concluded on a very high note when on of my
classmates requested that I end our first semester on a poetic note.
I obliged by reading
what you now know as, “Blood On My Sleeves:
the shade of reproof.” I had no plans of posting this on W2TM. That is; until I saw the impact of this
particular expression. In doing so, I’ve
learned that some of my best works may be the pain and strife the masses have
yet to encounter.
This semester, I’m
taking three writing classes. In less
than a year, I’ve experienced the literary work of Viktor Frankl, Ken
Lamberton, and Rick Bragg. I’ve read
various essays by accomplished literary scholars. And most recently, I met critically acclaimed
News and Observer columnist, Barry Saunders.
Word is bond!
One of the three
writing classes I’m taking is called, “Journaling.” I’ve already shared the
pain of wearing a red jumpsuit. So now I
want to share a recent entry in my journal about the stress within the halls of
the death row housing unit. I call it,
“Hypertension.”
Hypertension
Too many times I’ve been awake for sleepless nights. Frequent fights, before me or within me, ignites the pain rambunctiously moving through my veins.
Good morning stress…
Hello drama…
Good evening
melancholy…
I guess sweet dreams weren’t meant to be. At least not for me… unless they pertain to
my hopes and aspirations of leaving this box far behind.
The constant dealings with fish bowl minds will bend the
hardest of men. Time and time again, you’ll find yourself spying on that man
in the mirror that’s always crying.
The unpredictability within the halls of Unit 3 has the
potential to stain the mental, of each resident without warning. If you’ve been here long enough it’s just
another morning.
A walk to the chow hall doesn’t necessarily mean the only
thing you’ll be fed is food. Unforeseen trauma is always on the menu. So what’s a Mann to do?
A Mann who’s obligated to spilling expressions of
encouragement and inspiration to the masses, while my existence drips like
molasses.
I mean, don’t get it twisted; I’m on top of my pen
game. It’s just a shame; every time I
open my eyes the scenery and happenings within remain the same.
Every man for himself.
Crabs in the barrel.
I gotta get me,
me!
It’s no wonder a large percentage of the death row
population suffers from hypertension. A
tension with no end, like the oblivious steps into the unseen gin.
It seems like going without sleep holds the disappointment
to minimal damage. The carnage capsulated within the concrete of Unit 3 is
calamitous to the consciousness of the pursuer of righteousness…
But, then again; dead men can’t be heard. So what do you do?
Do you continue to walk the green mile, mute to the world?
Or, do you pick up pen and open the doors to the land of the
lost?
I’d much rather leave this realm as a sleepless beast with
the pen, than a well-rested polluted soul incapable of seeing the beginning
from the end.
Hypertension won’t be the death of me. Ya heard?
Still Living,
MannofStat
Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann
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