Writings

     Poems   Messages

     that our friends in prison like to share with us!

DISCLAIMER:

I will not be held responsible for the contents of all these writings & poems.
I offer the prisoners the opportunity to express themselves. I can only
hope that people recognize the value of what I am doing. Since the system does
not want violence in their prisons, these prisoners need other means to vent
frustration, hope, anger and all other kind of emotions. Therefore I give
them an opportunity for self-expression in a harmless manner!      

By Sid Byrd

Panther in the Sky  

“Hear me 0 deluded people, this wide region
was once your inheritance: but now the cry
of the revelry of war is not more heard on
the shores of the majestic Hudson, or on the
sweet banks of the silver Mohawk The eastern
tribes have long since disappeared -- even
the forests that sheltered them are laid low;
and scarcely a trace of our nation remains,
except here and there the Indian name of a
stream or a village. And such, sooner or later,
will be the fate of other tribes; in a little
while they will go the way that their brethren
have gone. They will vanish like a vapor from
the face of the earth; their very history will
be lost in forgetfulness; and the places that
now know them will know them no more. We are
driven back until we can retreat no farther;
our hatchets are broken; our bows are snapped;
our fires are extinguished. A little longer
and the white man will cease to persecute us,
for we shall cease to exist” 

TENSKATAWA the Shawnee prophet and brother of
Chief Tecumseh spoke those words 200 years ago. 
They are as potent today as they were then. A
cry for hope. A plea for awakening. A call to
attention. Tenskatawa was a spiritual man. A
seer that understood the need for unity of all
tribes. He also understood the great price that
was to be paid in Blood. His father, as well as
two other brothers, had already given their lives
in battle to defend their home land. 

Both Tenskatawa and Tecumseh knew that there would
be no peace. They knew that the great value of this
land. The rich bounty and the magnificent beauty and
wealth of OUR home would never go away. It would
forever fill the heads of the settlers with greed,
that only through unity and the dominant threat of
war would concession be achieved and maintained.
”Tecumseh was a warrior that understood the respect
and honor of war. Like Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull
and so many who willingly gave their lives as defenders
of the ways and lands of our people. They knew that
to overcome the ever encroaching ways of the whites
it had to be accomplished by strength and the
unwavering bond of all tribes.

Tecumseh traveled everywhere to spread the message
of unity As a respected warrior and chief of the
Shawnee people he was given the attention of everyone.
He was a powerful speaker. A great man that asked
only for all to return to the ways of the ancestors. 

The panther in the sky. A comet blazing a trail in
the night to announce his birth to the world. Tecumseh
would follow that path throughout his life, and fear
of his influence made him a target of many. Yet one
man named William Harrison who would later say of him,
“He was one of those uncommon geniuses which spring up
occasionally to produce revolutions and overturn the
established order of things.’ 

Tecumseh was a warrior before his time with an
understanding far ahead of his people. He was a messenger
that would, like a panther in the sky, enlighten everyone
for all time. 

The two brothers established a new village.
A place of traditional teaching and spiritual
awareness. It was called Prophetstown. A gathering
of nations began to grow in Prophetstown. Many
tribes joined alliances. Tenskatawa taught of
separation from the ways of the white man and
the return to the customs and teachings of the
ancestors. Whiskey was forbidden and European
trade goods were cast aside along with the materialistic
lust of possessions these modem items had brought
to the people. And Christianity was outlawed; only
traditional rituals and ceremonies were allowed. 
The growth and popularity of Prophetstown drew the
fear of the territorial Governor William Harrison,
who began to plot to end this solidarity that was
being established. He had already experienced first
hand the bold and threatening nature of Chief Tecumseh,
who had arrived in the territorial capital confronting
Harrison over a treaty. The governor had gotten eleven 
whisky-soaked chiefs to sign a document ceding three
million acres of land that they had no authority to even
negotiate much less cede. This became known as the Fort
Wayne Treaty. Harrison knew that Tecumseh did not fear
the white man or its government.

“I am a Shawnee!” Tecumseh had cried. “My forefathers
were warriors and their son is a warrior. From them I
take only my existence... Sell the country! Why not
sell the air, the clouds and the great sea, as well as
the earth? Did not the Great Spirit make them all for
the use of his children?” Tecumseh argued that OUR
RIGHT OF OCCUPANCY made any cession an illegal act. 

Harrison waited until he knew that Tecumseh was far
away in Florida building alliance with the confederacy
of all tribes, and it was then that he brought the soldiers
under his command down upon the unsuspecting people of
Prophetstown. Tecumseh led his warriors to Canada where
he joined in the efforts of the British to overthrow the
enemy of his people. He brought a force of 2000 warriors
of many tribes that he commanded in four major battles,
each one bringing victory. And when the British chose to
withdraw from the war. 

Tecumseh asked them for their arms. “Our lives are
in the hands of the Creator. We are determined to
defend our lands, and if it is his will, we wish
to leave our bones upon them.” 

During the battle of the River Thames Tecumseh was
killed...No white man saw his body. It was carried
from the field of battle by his warriors. William
Henry Harrison was in command of this battle as a
brigadier general of the U.S. Army. Harrison had
stopped the greatest warrior of that time. 

And Harrison would go on to win the election to
become the 9th president of the United States. 
He used campaign slogans boasting of the massacre
of Prophetstown. He was the hated enemy of the
Indian People. His path was marked by the blood
of Our Ancestors. Upon a trail of the bones of
many a great warrior he had made his climb. This
the Great Spirit did not forget and with poetic
justice William Henry Harrison, during a cold
gray and raining inaugural address, babbled on
in what many say seemed to be the ramblings of
someone possessed. He had come down with some
mysterious illness and after 31 days he died,
becoming the shortest president to ever hold 
office. 

It is the memory of this man that has been lost
in forgetfulness. The memory of the Great Chief
Tecumseh has lived on. The vision of a mighty
confederacy has remained. The gathering of nations
will continue, because someone is always ready to
open the door. 

The message of Tenskawata and Chief Tecumseh was
one of Honor Awakening. And Awareness of who we are.
REMEMBRANCE, A call to return to the traditional
teaching of our elders and the plea to all to defend
our ways with a warrior’s heart. With all of our being.

Quantum Leap

The Sacred Stone

The young child sat near the creek bank, and the wise
old grandfather watched his grandson dig up a fist size
stone. It was smooth and polished from many years of
life, and its age was innumerable, ancient was the best
guess. "Grandpa," the child called, "What did God make
rocks for?" The old man carefully settled next to the
child taking the stone in his withered hands. He raised
it above his head and talked to the ancient rock. The
child watched as this took place. The words the old one
spoke were not understandable, though the reverence and
the display of respect was obvious. Handing the stone
back to his grandson he said, "The Creator made the stones
before everything else and all things originate and come
from the stone. The stones are sacred and their spirits
are powerful, all knowing and wise." The child thought
this over for a long time and held the stone high over
his head and in his innocent way said "thank you" to the
rock. "How can a rock be wise and powerful?" he asked his
grandpa. The old one took his time and filled an old stone
pipe with tobacco and after it was burning patiently he
began, "Long ago, before I was born..." The child's eyes
grew big at that news so the old one added, ".. even before
my grandfather, and even before his, many many years ago
the Ancient Ones - our people, they have always respected
the earth. And in the heated stones of the sweat lodge the
wise men sought wisdom. In the glowing rocks of the dark
inipi the medicine men and the brave ones sang songs and
prayers. They drew close to the Creator. They returned to
the womb of Mother Earth, and from the stones all things
come. The sacred rocks are the original source and even
now should be given respect and offerings." The child
listened closely to each and every word. He enjoyed the
old stories only his grandpa ever told him and he watched
his calm and relaxed manner of wisdom. The old one took
the stone in his hand and caressed it, as he explained
the power in the only way he could to such a young one.
"This sacred rock is made by the Creator, by God's hand,
and its shape has been molded by the timeless caress of
Mother Earth and the elements. The power within this
stone is hard to find, but it is there in its spirit,
in its being, and it is all knowing and wise. The history
of the earth and of all mankind is recorded in the stones.
The Ancient Ones could talk to and learn from the Stone
People, and today some still do, and they can foresee the
future. "How do they do that, Grandpa?" The small one asked.
The wise old man reached over to touch the quartz watch on
the child's wrist and said, "The time in your watch is kept
by the wisdom of a tiny stone. A rock within the plastic
tells the numbers when to change." The grandson looked at
his watch with wonder and amazement and then at the rock
still in his grandfather's hand. The old one tapped the ash
from his pipe into the hole the old stone came from and
looked at his grandson and said, "The smartest men in the
world today still use the sacred aspects of the stone. They
do not realize this spiritual power as I have told you. Yet
they gain and keep and gather their knowledge and share it
with the world because of the sacred stone. And the more it
thinks the hotter it becomes just as it does within the inipi.
Though today most share its power in the tiny stones they call
'silicon chips'. AHO!

NEWSLETTER & WEBSITE

from Sid Hawk Byrd!!!!!

Sid was very close with Standing Deer, who,
on January 20, 2003,crossed over to the Spirit
World. Robert "Standing Deer" Wilson was an
enrolled Oneida from the Oneida Nations of
Wisconsin, friend of Leonard Peltier for 25
years, and Native American Political Prisoner
and Spiritual Activist.

Now, Sid and his sister Denise have put a website
and newsletter together concerning (Native American)
prisoners called JUS CAUSE!

He does this in honor of the work of Standing
Deer. He wants to show how this man came to
prison after making a wreck of his life, but
who found peace in his heart and soul. He
began to put the traditional values of Native
American people first in his life. Standing
Deer was offered a deal if he killed Leonard
Peltier, but he refused to do that. He turned
his life around at that point. After three
decades he finally got out of prison and he
did not mess up. He did everything he could
for the struggle. He worked to help Leonard,
and also other prisoners. He did not forsake
the promises he had made to do his self, and
others. Standing Deer was a changed man, he
found a purpose in his life, and that purpose
became the movement.

Sid believes that many prisoners in the U.S.A
will relate to Standing Deer his story, and
will find strength in it.

If you have any articles, messages, writings, poems, art,
whatever, you like to see placed and/or if you want to
become a member, please write to the following address:

Sid & Denise Byrd/ Just Cause
c/o P.O. Box 543
Dolomite, AL 35061

Also; DONATIONS ARE WELCOME since this newsletter is done
on a voluntary bases! The donations possibly would be used
for postage and also to sponsor indigent prisoners who can't
afford it. Thank you in advance.

WEBSITE:

You can also contact Sid:

Sid Hawk Byrd # 872404 
Coffield Unit 
Route 1 Box 150 
Tennessee Colony, TX 75884 USA

Or e-mail him at:

byrdscage@aol.com

For Sid his ad click here

By: A Wisconsin prisoner who likes to stay anonymous
(2003; he spent 23 years inside so far)

This is a Blues
By: A Wisconsin prisoner who likes to stay anonymous
(2003; he spent 23 years inside so far)

This is a blues
For the bros killed in prison,
and for the families who didn’t get to say goodbye.

This is a blues
For all the good women and men behind bars
For the crime of being poor, black, Mexican or Indian
Or for refusing to kneel.

This is a blues
For the work undone, the art unmade, the poems unwritten
The stars undiscovered, the songs unsung.

This is a blues
For those who have been shot off the wall
Cut by razor wire, or run to the ground by dogs
And those who got away for awhile.

This is a blues
For those who have surrendered and for those who shot it out

This is a blues
For prisoners with AIDS, with HIV, and Cancer.
For every prisoner who ever died for want of
medical care he/she would have had on the street.

This is a blues
For jailhouse junkies, and all those dying on
their feet trying to keep the pain away.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who ever hung himself
For every prisoner ever murdered by a guard hung up like a suicide.

This is a blues
For every prisoner that ever went crazy inside a cell
For every prisoner who couldn’t make it back out on the street
For every prisoner in solitary and for every prisoner who ever gave up.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who lives each moment to the fullest in spite
of everything. For every prisoner who discovered his intellect
in the penitentiary.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who works in the prison factory for next to
nothing and sends what he makes to his family on the streets.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who has lost a wife, husband, friend or lover
while inside. For every child who can’t understand why mommy or
daddy can’t be with them.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who ever watched a sunrise thru prison bars
For every prisoner who struggles to see the moon beyond the search lights.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who’s ever been to cold at nite, or to hot, to wet,
to thirsty or hungry and there is nothing to be done.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who has refused an inedible meal or
a comfort or a privilege out of principal.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who ever gave his only blanket to his
brother when it was cold. Or gave food to a stranger.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who still wants to be a gangster
And for every gangster who’s about to be a prisoner

This is a blues
Who’s inside for trying to do the right thing on the outside
And for every prisoner who’s doing the right thing since he got busted.

This is a blues
For every woman who’s ever loved a man in prison.
And for every man in prison whose wife or lover never came to see him.

This is a blues
For every prisoner who’s never had a visit or a letter.
For all the letters sent and never answered.
For every letter ever thrown out by a guard.
For every prisoner on death row.
For every prisoner officially murdered by the state.
For every prisoner murdered off the record.
For every prisoner with life, no parole, no hope.
For every female prisoner demeaned, insulted, molested or
raped by male guards.
For every prisoner force fed while in hunger strike.
For every prisoner made to chop cotton, hoe cabbage,
make license plates, sew blankets, dig ditches, pick garbage.
For every prisoner ever beaten.
For every prisoner bussed or airlifted while shackled like a slave.
For every prisoner who cannot read or write.
For every prison prayer unanswered.
For every prisoner dream deferred.

This is a blues
For the rebels, the thoroughbreds, the stand up convicts.
For every convict who carried his own weight.
For every convict who took the weight for someone else
and never said a mumbling word.

This is a blues
For every mother who cried.
For her son or daughter in prison.
For every prison mother who cried for her children on the street.
For every child who’s already on the track to the penitentiary.

This is a blues
For every prison snitch whose punishment is having to live with himself.

By Robert Apple

"The Daily Road I must Walk"

(I'm not allowed to write about
the fighting and the violence, so
can't include that...)

6:20 am:
My cell door 'pops' open. In a rush, I awaken
dressing as quick as I can, putting on my pants
and shoes, with a little time to look into my
4x6 mirror to see if I'm decent. I walk out on
the tier and join the other lifeless bodies who
choose to get up and endure breakfast.
6:45 am:
I return to my cell, lock-up, and brush my teeth,
wash up, getting ready for what ever the day has
in store for me.
7:00 am:
Standing count, lights on bright, one hand on the
door. All inmates are counted at these times, and
the whole facility is on lock down for about 15
minutes. This is very important!
7:30 am:
My cell door opens, and I'm off to work, again
joining all the lifeless bodies that are able to
work, as jobs are rare. Where I work is a small,
clear plastic, make shift studio, where I paint,
using acrylic paint, and even make my own frames.
I paint on canvas, and get 25 cents an hour. Not
much, but I do get to paint whatever I want, but
have to help sell the work. This is a very rare
job that I have, and am learning a good Voc-trade.
10:25 am:
Lunch break, we all stand by our work areas, until
the staff makes sure that all tools are accounted
for, and then we all walk in a line, to the chow
hall. All workers eat same time.
10:50 am:
I return to my cell, brush my teeth, lock up, and
get ready for a little "young and the restless"
soap opera.
11:00 am:
Standing count, again, lights on etc.
11:30 am:
Count is cleared, and away I go, joining the line
of bodies going back to work. This is where I
spend my afternoons painting, or creating. This is
my only escape from this ugly.
3:25 pm:
Work is over, and after everything is accounted
for we line up and join the line of bodies that
are returning
back to our cells. There is a small sense of
easiness at this time, as it is a time I have
survived another day in this place, and another
day is gone. and there is always the possibility
that I might get mail, or a magazine, always hope
that someone will remember me.
3:45 pm:
Standing count, lights on bright, one hand on the
door. Mail is delivered at this time also, if I get
a mail it is placed on my bars, and the guards walk
on by. If there is no mail, you shake it off, always,
maybe tomorrow If I do get something, I often stare
at it, and let the memories and visions pass through
my eyes. There are those who are fortunate to see
the parole board, this is the time they get their
decision. Sometimes you will hear screams and yells
of what happened to them, others you hear shout
because of girlfriends sending bas news that they
are now with their brothers. Some experience death,
and others happy news.
4:10 pm:
Workers ring out for showers, and this is my only
time to get fresh clothes. At this time, there always
seems to be a mad rush, because everyone wants close
that will fit, or a hot shower. Everyone seems to
"run" to the shower room. Same group of people, same
line, only wearing shower thongs and running.
4:30 pm:
Return to my cell, and lock up, prepare for supper.
5:00 pm:
Supper ring out. Every cell door on my tier opens up,
and we all line up for supper. Only now the lines are
longer and the food is always a mystery.
5:25 pm:
I return to my cell, and prepare for the evening
recreation. I brush my teeth, and if I ever do get
mail, this is the time that I would answer it. If
not, I will be working on craft items
6:30 pm:
Workers ring out, all the workers that signed up for
rec will be released. This is when hell breaks loose,
as everyone runs to the rec building to get a spot on
the basket
ball court volleyball, or weight bench, telephones. I
live on the fourth floor of 5 tiers.
8:15 pm:
I return to my cell and lock up for the night.
8:45 pm:
Standing count, last one.
9:00 pm:
Count is cleared. Over night lock down. This is when
you choose what you're doing for the night. Choose
carefully. If you listen good, you can hear people
laugh, cry, argue, fight and talk of what the parole
board did. This is what it's like to walk a small step
in my shoes....

For Robert his ad click here

By Jarrett Johnson

Doing time

I have less freedom than the bird
That call his nest a home,
Surrounded by thousands of people yet
I still feel alone.

All control of my life have been taken
Away from me,
The life I live lets me know
I am no longer free.

It makes me wonder how all this
Misery came to be,
How could I get caught-up to have
My freedom taken from me.

Some have thought of suicide but
That’s not my style,
I’d rather sweat it out hoping the
Outcome bring freedom in awhile.

I go outside I look around at the grass
How it sit so peacefully still,
But in my mind to be a free man
Is a major part of my will.

So many days it seems nobody really
Cares what I think in my mind,
But reality shows that ups and downs
Are all a part of doing time.

Freedom is so close yet so far
From my aching heart,
Soon it will come my way once again
And I’ll have a brand new start.

Jarrett doesn't have an ad on my site,
but did want to share his poems!
(Jarrett is incarcerated at Easterling
Correctional Facility , Clio, AL USA)

By Eugene Snyder

A child is crying

A child is crying
From deep in side
Looking for comfort
From far and wide

Looking in a mirror
And seeing no hair
Crying with fear of dying
Without someone to care

Lost in a world
With tears of confusion
Trying to sort out
Reality from illusion

A little hearts crying out
Filled with sorrow and pain
A mind so little and empty
Yet feels like it’s going insane

A child is crying
For someone to care
Searching for anyone who
Can eliminate his despair

Trapped

In my soul I find a fire
Burning with a great desire
Fighting so hard to be free
Only to be trapped by destiny

I’ve searched high and low
Only to find what I already know
That with out a doubt
There is simply no way out

Before me stouts a wall
Oh, how I wish it would fall
It just doesn’t seem fair
For it keeps standing there

Captured by my own despair
I find no-one to really care
Feeling sad and blue
I find myself long over due

Life is a long and twisted road
In my mind it’s a heavy load
Life is what we make it to be
So why is it so hard for me ?

In the meantime Eugene is released!

By Tony Hanna

“A Native in and around Americans”

To start off this leaf [letter] I would gladly like to say I am a Native,
who was born in Turtle-island which is now called America. But before that,
there were no boundaries at all, it used to be so nice before the white
soldiers came. The old Brothers knew this.......I grew up on and off the
reservation. Now that I am inside the Iron house of greed, I feel I should
drop this note through a special person, who seems to understand a lot.
Hopefully these words will reach you brothers and sisters in Turtle island.
There are times I have to endure the isolation, I keep wondering of why
there is no more Strength, Respect, Unity, Peace among the Native People
of Turtle island. Why don’t we join hands to make way for our native child-
ren? We pray for our own enemies straight cut that low. This is not what a
Native does. I’ve been there and still going through it, special within the
Iron house. I suffer more than you brothers and sisters out there on Turtle
island. Same goes with all the other brothers who are probably going through
this suffering too. It seems like there is too many Indians, not enough nati-
ves. It used to be too many Indians not enough "Chiefs". We need more lea-
ders out there to school the Indians after they graduate. Than I am sure they
will understand there are not Indians more like Natives. I grew up around
some racially mix breaded people and still going to see more of these people.
I am glad to be what the creator made me to be. I feel to be the only Native-
Brother who sees the weakness in the Indians. Money, Material things, from
the white man ain`t all that. Look at how they use it on other people around
Mother Earth. Ain't it about time we-Natives-stand up and let it be known who
is in the wrong? Hopefully "Karma" will get them really soon. What goes ar-
ound must come around. Another message to our NATIVE-LADIES ain't also about
time you sisters stop loving our enemies? There's another weak spot there, no-
disrespect, just trying to send this message out to see if other Native Brothers
agree with me. Peace, Love, Respect to all the Indigenous people of the Earth. Supai Brother, in the Spirit of our Ancestors.
Much Love,
Tony.

For Tony his ad click here

By James Willot

The Old Man

The old man climbed the mountain and stared across the plains. He did
not hear the howling wind or feel the falling rain. He simply sat and
watched the land as if in some deep trance and then he broke his silence
and began his own death song. He sang about his village and the loved
ones left behind and of the ones who had long been gone who he now hoped
to find. He sang of a thousand hunts and battles he had lived through and
as he sang his gaze lifted to where an eagles flew. He watched it slowly
circle as it floated on the wind and felt grateful his brother had came
to join him in the end. He thought about the soldiers who kept coming
from the east and his last prayer was that the Creator would give his
people peace.

Drab grey wall,
Cold steel cage,
Left 24 hours,
To build up rage.

Voices scream,
When souls are lost,
Concrete walls,
Old like frost.

Trapped and alone,
Blind to the outside,
Nowhere to run,
Nowhere to hide.

Vindictive police,
Chase cheap thrills,
Towers await,
Easy kills.

Restricted space,
Drives you insane,
Another victim,
Of the prison game.

For James his ad click here

By David Hause

Raven’s Hunt

On pitch black wings he soars the sky,
The midnight wind to carry his cry

Silent drifts the earth below,
His spirit seeks to join the flow

His soul is strong, never weak,
Another is all he truly seeks

With eyes like polished obsidian,
He searches without, he looks within

If his hunt is pure,
Will he find his cure?

A glint in an eye,
A call to on high

“Forever is a friend”
The hunt never ends

For David his ad click here

By Casey Rodrigues

My keepers surround me
with hatred and
sharp words

I would be a good inmate
to smile back
if my head is bowed
eyes downcast
then I am learning

If my voice is cracked
and if I am docile
then I may be considered
rehabilitated
fixed like dog…

Every so often
time stands still
as one soul
speaks
to another
a moment of clarity
fleeting
absolute
perfection…

To the dungeon
locked away in oblivion
a fate most would dread
these things are nothing to me
there are no emotions to sled
to a soul long bled
you can not kill what is already dead

Sadistic or plain
no torture nor pain
brings back what has fled
not a sign or a cry
such is long dead
mere words unsaid
you cannot kill what is already dead

For Casey his ad click here

By Charlie O'Brien

Someone for me

Is she out there?
Lady of my life
Can you hear me
Are you willing to give
Just as you’re willing to accept?
Are you rich, not of monies
But at heart, that of which is gold?
Are you strong mentally, emotionally and spiritually?
Can you cope with legal animosities
That envelope my soul and keep
Me confined deep in this world
Of concrete and steel?
Can you deal with the distance, not of miles
But of fences and wire?
Will you accept me for me, for who I am
And not judge me for my past?
Will you let me whisper sweet nothings in your ear
At 4.68 cents for the first minute and 69 cents every minute after that?
Will you be willing to sacrifice and give your heart,
Yourself 100%, just as I am and will for you?
Can you be my friend, my partner and most of all
My mate?
Is she out there?
Lady of my life
Can you hear me?

Who am I

Grandfather, I came to you to ask
For understanding and knowledge of who I am?
In my heart I am of mother earth
But to white eyes I am an abundant of things
Many of which are derogatory
To many natives I am simply half breed
Growing up I had to fight, not to defend myself
But because half of me was only half of my opponent
This is me as a young warrior
But now as a grown man I know exactly who and what I am
I am a Delaware warrior of the Lenape nation
And I stand proud of who I am and what I represent
I represent my grandfather, my grandmother
My father and my mother
I represent the red nation
I represent life
Aho all my relations.

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By Alex James Hendrix

The finer things

I sip fine wines
To a true queen dime
A flower on which the sun shines
But she pays me no mind
Wasting all my precious time
Gods greatest gift to all mankind
The beauty that defines
Between those thin lines
There’s millions of others
But she’s one of a kind
Ripest of the vine
So hard to find
Heaven and earths devine
Intertwined with my mind
I’ll search for a lifetime
Until I go blind
Still hoping for a sign
On my way to heaven
I broke the angel’s spine
Falling back to the world of swine
Just to dine
One special moment in time
May I incline
With a precious prime
Cherish you like shrine
True loves so hard to find
You define my heart and soul
Eternal is my mind
You make me understand the
Meaning of sunshine
For you I’ll give up
This life of crime
Your beauty’s more rare than
A red diamond
Which I’ll invest
All my precious time in
As I repent my sins
I’m gone with the wind
But before I go
My love I send
And forever to
My special friend

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By Myron Larvie

My Loyalty

My loyalty is yours and this my life.
If you wanna ride, we gonna ride together
Are patience is business before pleasure
You best believe
Your enemies, or my enemies, our love will last forever
My loyalty
I’m having flash backs from the memories
Of the penitentiary
You was there trough the misery. Lord forgive
Me and take this pain
I thank you for sending me an angels love
I haven’t seen it until it was to late
My loyalty
Has me dealing with my hate
My life
Has me dealing with my fate
I love you and I miss you
My loyalty is yours baby girl

I said your name

When I said your name
My heart felt victim to the
Consequences of the casualties
Of pain
The silence
As I close my eyes I see your face
I whisper so soft
I haven’t heard your voice in months
Although it was long distance
It felt as though your lips were next to mine
As we spoke
My heart was doing time
It’s amazing how one phone call
From the penitentiary can remind me
Of all the memories of you and me
Patience as I said your name

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