| I Am With those whom I am housed, I do not love. With those who keep me guard, I have no quarrel. For those who serve me unjust, I do not hate. Though I long for freedom this cell maybe my fate! A traveling man with no destination, my luggage is the world’s weight. Though I sin, am I not human? Made of desire and flesh, as not the rest? I am King when I dream, a mere slave when I awake. Though I travel in place with withered legs,I will march to the light of freedom until my soul leaves this place. Upon the sun or my death, my pen shall never be sheathed. I will fight until my kingdom is released from this siege. Love is upon my heart, upon my mind is peace. Perhaps, I have changed, pity upon the man who remains the same. Unaware of its perils, I played a deadly game. Though my body is caged, my mind is free. I am Kory McClary! |
Fatally Her Part 8
| Fatally Her PT 8 She was a sinner… She was a killer… She was a devil… She was Satan! She was upset! Vexed! This motha fucka just escaped death. She couldn’t sleep, she was tossing and turning in between her silk sheets. On her queen bed, she was spread. Frustrated… lucid dreams about how she missed the kill. Daydreams of how her head was worth twenty five mil’. Nightmares of how she dodged an assassin’s bullet. Her sleep wasn’t sleep, it was vision of revenge… A reward on her head? “Ha!” She would seek who put it there then they were dead. She was pitching a fit, throwing shit everywhere. Her closet was destroyed because of her storm, bags and minks littered her floor. She broke the bed in her room, all of the diamonds and pearls flung all about. The nerve of that chocolate man, for believing that he could do her dance. She could never forgive herself for succumbing to his trance. It was time to self purge: Destroy all of the bags, heels, and the furs. Start over. Overhaul her policy. She was accepting nothing less than a half of a million. Twenty five mil’ on her head… “Ugh!” She couldn’t believe the cowards had the guts. She would start with the man who was chocolate. He knew her identity and her moves… . ‘Switch it up.” She couldn’t believe that she was fooled… . “Tighten up!” The chocolate man, almost had her biting the dust. Still, she was yearning for his assassins touch, the way that he grabbed her butt, and the devil that she saw when she looked into his eyes through his shades made her heart shake. She fell in love with that thug on sight. The moment that he revealed the deal, she was thrilled by his cunning. “Umm,” her dreams were wet. She dreamed of having sex… Suck him, then kill him! But, she could only kill him! The way that he whispered in her ear touched her murderous spirit. “He’s just like me,” she screamed. She needed new guns and more poison. It was war! War time meant that she upped the score. She was killing whoever was available. Wife… . All was fair in love and war. She was in love with the moneybag and prepared for battle. And something was creeping into her heart for t ole boy. She would stab him in the heart, for involving her heart. The chocolate assassin’s attempt on her life kept her looking over her shoulder. She was seeking closure. He was the only person in the entire world that was able to expose her. She was chasing an assassin backwards. Looking over her shoulder. Twenty five mil’ for her kill, why didn’t he seal the deal? Her Tiffany necklace, she ripped it off of her neck, and threw it down the steps. She was seething with fire. Murder was her desire. Hell was in her eyes and images of that dark skinned guy. She was coming up with ideas, of killing him while he tasted her. Her home…., she was setting it ablaze as it was no longer safe. She was starting anew in a gazebo, in the jungle, in Africa, somewhere. She almost fumbled the rock. Pictures of her shot on a New York City block, flashed repeatedly upon her mental screen. Mr. Assassin was whispering to her in her dreams, “I know who you are.” “The audacity of this motha fucka!” It was obvious that he had no clue who she was. If he did, he would’ve killed her dead. Because she was Ms. Kill ’em dead. He made a mistake letting her live. She would hunt him until he was dead. Twenty five mil’ was her price tag. Twenty five mil that he would never receive. Indeed, she was the princess of darkness, enthralled by his darkness, she wouldn’t rest until all that he saw was darkness. She slung the Versace China. Shards of ceramic and porcelain littered the floor. She was a woman scorned! Ring the alarm– here comes her fire storm. She butcher knifed the couch to shreds. She would paint the world blood red, until Mr. Assassin was dead. Who sent him? He would tell her right before she chopped off his dick. Then she would stuff it in his mouth… CockSucker; had the game twisted. Kill her? He had the chance but he missed it. She put on her KB shades struck a match… Her mansion went up in flames. She whispered, “Femme Fatale”, as she strode away. |
Fatally Her PT 7
| He was a man on a mission. She was the superficial Dame seeking the contents of his pockets, calculating the value of his watch. Playing the part of the Thot! He knew her type. She was a whore fancied with Dior. Tiffany jewellery paid for by her last score. “My last date bought me this necklace” she looked him up and down. “What will you buy me?” He wasn’t a score. He was a man on a mission. Playing the part of her mission. His top hat was Findi, diamond encrusted cane was Tiffany. Tonight, he would blow Lorelei a symphony. “Rockabye baby!” He would get her high… maybe? Or, blow her wig off! He’s been on her heels for years. Just caught up to her, when she pulled that stunt on the Riviera. Every week that she wasn’t deceased, the bounty on her head increased! Twenty five mill dead or alive! Every week they added another five. All of the assassins in the underworld, wanted to drop this unknown girl. However, his fly caught her on his line. She killed the wrong guy, someone connected to the wrong mob. Now, the price on her head was high. She would be his grand-kill: twenty five mill! Along with the notoriety, of killing the Dame nobody could kill. Getting close was a mission impossible. It took forever! Now, it was a pleasure to wine, dine, then murder her! He was Mr Murderer, King splurger! Two fifty, for his Richard Mille watch. The Lambo, he dropped the top. Smooth cruising, hand dangling out the window. Salvatore Ferragamo dress shirt fitting him snug, showing off his muscles and cuts. The diamonds around his neck were dripping. David Yurman pinky ring. She was pretending to be dazzled by his bling. She was all in his face, unaware of the murder that he would bring. She thought she had him in the cross. Nevertheless, he crossed her cross. Now, he had her in the cross. He paid her to kill him. He was acting like he was her mission. Chrome Hearts shades concealing his vision. Blowing the loud smoke into the earth, playing the position. He was the master assassin, draped in the latest fashion. Driving his car, he was thinking about fucking this broad, killing her, then buying a new car. She was pretty enough to be under his arm for the night. Quite honestly, she was his type. She was practically in his lap, grabbing on his sack, whispering a whole bunch of nothing in his ear… His diamond earrings were glistening severe! She wanted to drink his chocolate drip right here, before she put his brains on the rearview mirror. Quick kill– already paid for. A quarter mill! She inhaled his weed, the smoke eased out of her mouth into the breeze. She was high. Still, ready to put the murder game down. Four pound in her Chloe bag. Lapima sunglasses! She nibbled on the diamonds in his ear. Mary J. playing low in the rear. What’s the 411: She was sexing him, killing him, then taking the diamonds out of his ear. She was pulling on his Armani tie. She would taste him while he drive. He moved her hand, when she slid it down his pants. She raised a brow? No man has ever avoided her advance. He rung her alarm! A simple brush off put her on guard. Still, she played along. Who was this guy? She wondered rubbing on his stomach. Did he have her number? The way that he moved: confident and smooth! She was sensing a double move. This chocolate guy, almost pulled it off. At the next light, she would blow his brains out– then pull off. He couldn’t resist the urge to tell her “I know who you are” He was holding her tight by the waist, not allowing her to reach in her bag and grab the gun. He held her down in his lap. At the red light, the car idly sat. He tongue kissed her then whispered “I was sent to kill you” She kissed him back and asked “How much did they pay you?” “Twenty Five mill is the deal… Pretty lady” He rubbed her breast, he was literally flirting with death. They were shining bright, under the New York city lights. Stopped at the light. Her, still sitting in his lap. Through her shades, he knew that she was eyeing her bag trying to get to the strap. But, he had her in his arms. He captured her with his charm. Now, he would kill her softly with his song! Twenty Five million was the price offered for her life. Omg! She had to up her price. She was impressed with herself. Her murderous deeds attracted big wealth. Someone put a quarter on her head, and they sent this chocolate man to kill her dead! He was handsome, under different circumstances, she would’ve romanced him. Now, they were dancing to the strum of the assassins guitar. His assassin’s creed tingled her heart. Too bad, The sensation wouldn’t last. She was smiling, he was feeling on her ass. She was grinding on his lap, biding her time. This pretty lady was confident that she would escape this bind. “I want to fuck you– and look into your eyes while you kill me!” Her words sent chills up his spine! “If this was a different time… Pretty Lady you would be mine.” Hats off to the Pretty Lady, she drove the world crazy. A legacy in the assassin’s mob. However, he was the top assassin! He didn’t want to kill her, but tonight she had to die! She wanted to kill him right here, under the lights. In, her New York state of mind! Her pretty was buying her time. He was grabbing her breast, he wouldn’t let her grab the bag nor reach into her breast. She was looking through her shades through his shades into his eyes… enticing him… For, she needed him to know who she was before he died. Lorelei! She whispered in his ear “So you think you could kill me?” Her soft tune put him back on point. This pretty lady almost sung the right song. A second longer, he would’ve been under her gun. A dead man under this New York city night-sun! The light turned green, he pulled off. She whispered “I’m going to kill you” in his ear, and jumped out of his car. “Ugh!” She was so mad, she left her bag, and she missed the kill. He survived this time, but next time she would whisper “Femme Fatale” in his ear |
Pulitzer Prize Chasing Revolutionary
Pulitzer Prize chasing revolutionary.
He whose pen strokes messages, dripping passages from ancient and lost scripture.
He who fears not —
God is his sanctuary.
Powerful and extreme words bleed from his instrument of expression.
He dips his pen in an estuary of ink.
Fuck what, you Think.
His quill brushes straight flushes.
Plus a scribble and a dribble.
You niggas are scary;
To have a free thought.
You’re told what to think.
He doesn’t blink when he writes the truth.
He only wonders if he’s true.
To hold himself accountable while chasing glory.
The glory of God or the glory of the people?
His answer is the truth.
Staring through the window from his prison cell, he sees the church’s steeple.
Not a Christian, but he revolutes for all people.
For heaven on earth.
What’s hell to a man’s bones in the dirt?
Just a question posed for those who run following blind on the earth.
Then he wonders how will he ever win a Pulitzer Prize when his thoughts are wild, free and scary.
Pulitzer Prize winning revolutionary.
Midlife Crisis
Midlife Crisis
I truly believe that I’m in the midst of a midlife crisis. Everything is coming into focus.
Like a long, flat, tree-lined vista, I see things clearly now.
However, the truths I once held to be self-evident are now obscure and ambiguous. Perhaps those truths are waning.
Truths turning into lies told to me.
Can a truth become a lie?
Or am I falsely learning, indoctrinating myself with bullshit?
I don’t know.
What I do know is that everything I was taught up until this point in my life has gotten me nowhere. I want to believe that the new knowledge I’ve been pouring into myself will guide me toward a healthier life.
But I’m still unhealed, clinging to unhealthy habits.
Some of the old things I’ve learned have become so deeply ingrained in me that I struggle to separate them from who I am.
And that scares me.
Because what if I’m wrong? What if I’m embarking on a path of unrighteousness?
But I’m only following myself.
I’m a good person.
Yet, according to the truths I was taught, the good die young, while these grimy niggas live a long time.
And no matter how hard I try, I cannot be a grimy nigga.
So, yeah.
I’m 38 and having a midlife crisis.
To be or not to be.
Good or grimy.
Kory, Shamar, or Blaq.
It’s a wrap for Hussain!
Blaq is a person who doesn’t fit. He’s not the person he needs to be to survive.
Blaq is a façade. A mask I created for the streets to believe that, if necessary, I’ll black the fuck out!
But that mask is what got me here.
He is not me!
But he is.
But he is not.
To let Blaq go is to be free.
Yet I’ve carried Blaq for so long that he’s become a part of me. He’s woven into my identity, stitched into the fabric of who I thought I needed to be.
And now I’m questioning whether the person I created to survive is the very person preventing me from living.
I’m at a crossroads in my life, standing in the middle of traffic, hesitant to move forward and tread my own path.
— Where are you in yours? Tell me in the comments — I read every one. If this piece hit you, hit Like and subscribe so the next one lands in your inbox.
53 Years of Standing on Business: The Inmate Legal Association’s Fight for Justice
By Kory McClary
For 53 years, the Inmate Legal Association (ILA) has been fighting for justice from behind the walls of New Jersey State Prison.
The ILA is a one-of-a-kind, incarcerated-person-run nonprofit organization composed of jailhouse lawyers dedicated to helping the prison population navigate criminal, civil and administrative legal matters.
Founded in 1973 and incorporated in 1974, the organization was established out of necessity to combat the legal inequities incarcerated men faced both inside the prison and in their battles against the State of New Jersey.
According to the ILA’s bylaws, the organization’s purpose is to provide free legal assistance to prisoners, offer instruction, disseminate legal knowledge and fulfill other purposes specified in its certificate of incorporation.
The ILA operates under an executive board consisting of Executive Director Al’Quan White, Director Alonzo Hill, and Allan Mattocks, who serves as both secretary and treasurer.
The organization is divided into five divisions: public relations, federal civil, state civil, criminal actions and administrative actions.
For more than five decades, the ILA has stood on business.
I recently had the opportunity to celebrate that legacy with its members during the organization’s 53rd anniversary banquet, held in the North Compound Visiting Hall at New Jersey State Prison.
During his opening remarks, Executive Director Al’Quan White explained that the anniversary was an opportunity to honor the men who created the organization out of necessity.
“The mission for the coming year is to continue to push a path forward to end mass incarceration in New Jersey,” White said. “Forward is the path.”
Following White’s remarks, members voted to select several individuals for associate and charter membership. Certificates were also awarded to members who completed educational courses and those who secured the most donations, both monetary and nonmonetary.
After the ceremony, food was served, and I had an opportunity to interview several members about the organization’s history, accomplishments and ongoing challenges.
A Legacy of Legal Resistance
Bobby Brown, who has been a member of the ILA for more than 25 years, believes the organization’s longevity comes from its ability to turn legal knowledge into meaningful action.
According to Brown, the ILA has effectively applied its knowledge in criminal, civil and administrative law to challenge injustices within the prison system.
He considers the organization’s lawsuit against the superintendent of Trenton State Prison, now known as New Jersey State Prison, one of its greatest accomplishments.
In Valentine v. Beyer, filed in 1985, the ILA sought declaratory and injunctive relief to prevent prison officials from arbitrarily depriving incarcerated individuals of rights guaranteed under the United States Constitution.
At the center of the dispute were restrictions imposed by the prison administration that limited the ILA’s ability to communicate with incarcerated people seeking legal assistance.
The court ruled in the ILA’s favor.
“The lawsuit has given the ILA long standing and enables them to litigate against the administration, despite the administration’s continuous efforts to shut the ILA down,” Brown said.
For James Martin, who joined the ILA in 1997, the organization’s future depends on educating the next generation of incarcerated men.
He hopes the ILA continues to grow while passing its legal knowledge to younger men entering the prison system.
“It’s important because most people know nothing about the law,” Martin said. “It’s imperative for the ILA to teach them.”
The Challenges of Fighting for Justice
Despite its accomplishments, the ILA continues to face significant obstacles.
Juan Turner, the organization’s civil division director, believes one of its greatest challenges is a shortage of experienced litigators.
Turner describes New Jersey State Prison as a functioning constitutional violation and argues that more incarcerated men need to become involved in challenging the conditions they face.
“With more litigators the fight will be stronger,” Turner said. “We need collectivity.”
Funding is another obstacle.
Allan Mattocks, the ILA’s executive secretary and treasurer, says securing grants and donations remains one of the organization’s biggest challenges.
“The more funding we have the more we’ll be able to assist,” Mattocks said.
For Director Alonzo Hill, some of the most pressing legal inequities involve incarcerated people’s limited access to the courts and legal resources.
Hill points to the inability of incarcerated individuals to electronically file state and federal appeals as a significant disadvantage.
Without access to electronic filing, incarcerated litigants must rely on the United States Postal Service, a process that can be costly and create delays.
“Using the United States Postal Service, a person’s mail is not guaranteed to arrive on time,” Hill said. “Then it’s on us to prove that we were timely.”
Hill also criticized what he describes as the prison administration’s continued efforts to restrict access to the law library and other legal resources.
“They create policies to limit legal access,” Hill said, pointing to restrictions involving digital discovery as another obstacle.
These limitations can make an already difficult legal process even more challenging for incarcerated men attempting to defend their rights.
The Fight Continues
Over the years, the ILA has helped incarcerated men confront these legal inequities through grievances, dialogue with prison officials and litigation.
Sometimes those efforts produce meaningful victories. Other times, the challenges persist.
But for the men of the ILA, the fight for justice does not end with a courtroom defeat, an unanswered grievance or another restriction imposed by prison administrators.
The organization was born out of necessity, built on legal knowledge and sustained by incarcerated men willing to fight for the rights of others.
Fifty-three years later, that mission remains unchanged.
And as White reminded those gathered at the anniversary banquet, “Forward is the path.”
— Should people inside have their own lawyers fighting for them like this? Tell me what you think in the comments. Like and subscribe for more reporting from inside.
Dear Diary #12
Affirmation: My time may have been taken from me, but my voice, my mind, and my will to be free still belong to me.
Dear Diary,
In 2008, when I was first arrested in Alabama, I believed I’d be home in no time. Seventeen years, eight months, and seven days later, I’m not even close to finishing a 130 year bid.
Damn.
Who ever would have thought this? Nobody thinks about the time before they commit the crime. So I don’t understand why judges, legislators, and the criminal justice system insist on using deterrence as a reason to sentence people so harshly.
Over the years, I’ve watched dozens of guys from my community come through this joint. Friends. Family. The sons of men I once ran with. Even rivals. My 130-year sentence didn’t deter them. So what exactly is being deterred?
To me, the aggravating factor of “deterrence” feels like a sham. Instead of deterring crime, these extreme sentences can deter people from exercising their right to go to trial. That fear is real. The fear of being whacked by the judge’s gavel can make a person think twice about fighting their case.
If I had taken the 22 year deal I was offered, I’d be on my way home. But in 2008, I was 22 years old. There was no way I could see 22 years away. Shit, I couldn’t see past my nose.
And that’s what I’m trying to explain today, sometimes accountability doesn’t arrive in the moment. Sometimes it takes years for a person to understand what they’ve done, who they’ve hurt, who they’ve become, and what their choices really meant.
Accountability can take years to catch up with a person. But the criminal justice system doesn’t seem to respect that basic human reality. It can be a remorseless machine, taking years from men and women without a second thought. As if time is something we can simply get back.
But we can’t. Once a year is taken, it’s gone. Once a birthday passes behind these walls, you don’t get it back. Once a child grows up without you, you can’t rewind their childhood. Time doesn’t do refunds. And maybe that’s the part that hurts the most. If we could have accepted accountability early in the game, whether innocent or guilty, our punishments would have been less harsh.
Maybe.
I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m tired. Tired of sitting in this cell. Tired of waiting. Tired of watching time pass while I’m expected to somehow remain hopeful.
Sometimes I wonder, What’s a nigga supposed to do? What could I possibly do to set myself free?
I cry. I pray. I pray. I cry. I write. I read. I read. I write. I even shout with all my might.
But still… The doors of this cell remain locked tight. So I keep searching for the key.
Maybe the key is in a courtroom. Maybe it’s in a letter. Maybe it’s in a book. Maybe it’s in these words I write with this pen. Maybe it’s in me.
Dear Diary, after seventeen years, eight months, and seven days, what does a man have to do to prove that he deserves another chance at freedom?
Peace,
Kory “Blaq” McClary
Dreaming
DREAMING
Eyes opened at about seven in the morning. Feeling well-rested, but feeling like something was on a nigga’s chest. Something heavy.
Fuck it.
This was a new day, and I was feeling like a new nigga. Somehow, someway, I was going to erase all these painful memories.
Showered. Feeling fresh. Cologne.
Oh, I smelled so good.
Nothing but the best.
Diamonds on my neck. Drip.
Diamonds on my wrist. Drip.
Diamonds on my pinky. Drip.
I rolled up something that stunk so good, inhaled the weed smoke, held it, then blew it out.
Now I’m stepping so smooth, oh so light, as if a nigga was walking on clouds or something.
Still, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Something was weighing on me, trying to pull me down.
So I inhaled deeper and blew the smoke out harder, ’cause somehow these painful memories I needed to erase.
Feeling silky in the finest linens, I jumped in my ride around one.
The skies were clear, and the sun was shining bright. So I dropped the top on that new white-on-white joint.
The sun had my drip on some reflector shit.
I was glistening luxuriously out this motherfucker.
Cruising through the city in my new whip, bumping some gangsta shit.
Bitches staring with lust. They wanna drink my drip.
Niggas staring with hate. They wanna take my shine.
Never that.
This shit on my waist would wake the whole city up. One pull, cock, and squeeze would have everybody ducking the heat.
So I threw the blockers on and leaned the seat back.
Way back.
Like back in the day when the money was funny, the love was hate, and these bitches didn’t see a nigga.
But that was a song for another track.
Of course, I threw up the deuce to the real niggas as I glided through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic like a ghost.
Smooth and light.
But heavy.
Something was still on a nigga’s chest.
But the sun was shining, the music was banging, and all these pretty bitches had a nigga suppressing something painful.
Damn.
Fuck it.
Somehow, these painful memories I needed to erase.
Nightfall.
The stars were out. Niggas were creeping, trying to attack something.
Something like, “Bitch, lets fuck.”
Or bag something.
“Nigga, give me the loot!”
Me? I’m trying to get a bitch to suck something.
“Bitch, stop playing. You know you suck dick.”
I’m trying to get head in the whip and bust all this pain weighing on my chest right out of my dick.
‘Cause somehow, someway, these painful memories I needed to erase.
Then I felt a little drizzle.
OMG.
I’m praying the rain doesn’t fall, ’cause I’m gonna have to convert the drop back to the top.
And it’s too beautiful a night for that.
I scooped a bad bitch, and she was ready to turn into a savage.
But the rain just had to drop.
It was inevitable.
I converted the top.
Now she’s tugging on my pants, trying to get the gun out.
I helped her out and released the beast.
Closed my eyes.
She started licking and sucking on a nigga.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
Something tapped against the tinted window.
I acted like I didn’t hear it.
Grabbed her head so she wouldn’t stop sucking.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The tapping turned into rapid knocking.
I ignored it and held her head tighter.
Then the knocking turned into banging.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I couldn’t resist the urge to spaz the fuck out.
I opened my eyes and turned to see who the fuck was ruining the perfect ending to my beautiful day.
“COUNT TIME!”
A correctional officer stood outside my cell, screaming.
“What?” I asked, groggy and confused.
“Blink an eye! Move a leg! It’s count time, motherfucker!”
I blinked several times.
Then I pinched myself.
A bitter laugh escaped when I realized this was still my reality.
I couldn’t believe this shit.
I was still here.
Still in this miserable-ass prison.
Still doing an L.
The whip. The diamonds. The women. The sunshine.
All a dream.
But these 130 years?
That shit was real.
And this cocksucker had just fucked up my wet dream.
I shook my head.
Guess some painful realities can’t be erased.
The dream may end, but the writing never stops.
If Dreaming made you laugh, think, or feel something, imagine what happens when I put my pain, passion, love, and truth into poetry.
My body may be confined, but my words know no boundaries.
Support my journey. Buy your copy of For Poetry today.
“Get your copy of For Poetry on Amazon” (https://a.co/d/00LtiGlF)

Dear Diary 11
Affirmation: I may fall, but I will always rise with a new plan, a stronger mind, and another reason to fight for my freedom.
Dear Diary,
What’s the deal?
Sometimes I feel like I’m not doing enough to get myself free. Then I ask myself, What more can I do? What else can I try to achieve my freedom? Maybe I need to write more advocates. More organizations. More people who might be willing to look at my case and help me navigate these legal woes.
I’ve tried before. At one point, I actually found some rhythm with an organization called Centurion. We communicated through letters for about two years. They seemed genuinely interested. They asked relevant questions about my case, and eventually, they took a closer look at what I had been screaming about. They saw the injustices I was talking about. For a while, I was convinced they were going to help me get back into that courtroom.
I was wrong.
Eventually, I received a letter telling me they couldn’t help me. When that letter hit, I was crushed. I had become so high on the possibility of their help that when the possibility disappeared, I sank low. Real low.
But I got back up. And maybe that’s what life is about. You fall, You get back up. You dust yourself off. And you get back to it. That experience discouraged me, but it also taught me something: I have to keep knocking on doors.
So maybe I need to write more institutions. More advocates. More organizations. Maybe the next letter I send finds the right person at the right time. I have to keep trying. Because I have to get out of here by any means necessary.
This place is inhumane, and it seems to become more so with every passing day.
It’s been eighteen years since I last felt the breath of freedom. Eighteen years.
Dear Diary, what more does a man need to be free besides being a part of humanity? Should a man be condemned to die in an unfree state? I’m not judging. I’m just wondering.
And while I wonder, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep learning. I’ll keep knocking. I’ll keep fighting. Because if one door closes, I have to find another one. And if there isn’t another door? I’ll build one.
Dear Diary, spread my words across the earth and into the world:
Kory McClary is ready to be free.
Peace,
Kory
Dear Diary 4
Daily Affirmation: “I will wield my words as weapons of truth, fighting for freedom and justice with unyielding resolve.”
—
Dear Diary,
Complacency is the worst trait to have. Are you crazy—content and satisfied with a cell? Appeased by a TV, a tablet, and a job detail? Don’t forget that everything besides freedom is hell. These appeasements are mere vessels of the devil, designed to keep us dwelling in misery, forgetting that we were born to exist free.
Ignorance is bliss? If being ignorant of my inalienable rights as a human is heaven, then give me hell—a book and a pen. With them, I can pour my pain onto white sheets with black ink and free myself from this misery. Knowledge is power, and the pen is mightier than the sword.
Are you crazy, complaining? Arm yourself with your sword—your pen—and stain the paper with red ink until you meet your Lord.
Give me freedom or give me death. My pen—I call it my tech-nology—is so hot that when I unleash its power, the fire burns blue. Though I’ve yet to stain the white paper with red ink, I’m still alive. With all these books I read, I’m becoming wiser to the endless lies, tricks, and disguises of the devil.
And if I don’t reach the destination my eyes long for, I’m writing down the plan for the next man to pick up and carry forward. Freedom is not a dream; it’s a fight.
Our battle is ongoing. Pick up your book, turn your pen into a weapon, and fire until the war is won.
For, he is a slave who does not read. And he is no warrior if he does not write. Be wary of those who speak like us but whose actions betray their words.
We are the leaders of this struggle. Our voices cannot and will not be silenced—for the pen cannot be silenced.
Dear Diary, can the fight for freedom ever truly end, or does each generation have to pick up the pen and carry it forward?
What’s The Elevens
I love your smile,
your half-intoxicated “wow,”
your freaky style.
You drive me so wild.
What is it about you
that does this to me?
Maybe it’s your eyes
the way you conceal
and reveal your grace,
the way you stare
into my face.
Your sexy ways
got me spittin’ in ways
I never knew
a nigga could spin.
I sit deeply musin’,
wondering about
your beginning
and your end.
I wonder what makes
your tongue spin
and your mind work.
Stimulate my curiosity
with your half-intoxicated twerk.
Sing to me,
and I’ll wish upon your heart
just to touch your star.
Whisper in my ear,
and the world will never know
who you truly are.
The secrets you reveal,
I’ll keep close to my heart.
I’ll turn your love into art,
only to be discovered
when our love
sparks the heavens.
What’s the elevens?
What’s your deal?
What will you do
to keep our love real?
From this distance,
from this perspective,
your love seems ideal.
But my point of view
may be skewed
by a gangsta’s definition
of what’s real.
So, what’s your point of view,
beautiful?
Let me know
so I can learn
how to love you
for eternity.
What’s the elevens
For Poetry is available now on Amazon

Dear Diary 10
Affirmation: I am healing at my own pace, growing in silence, and preparing for the freedom I know is mine.
Dear Diary,
It’s been a while.
But sometimes, a while is a good thing.
Time creates space. And a lack of space breeds familiarity. Familiarity can make people forget your value.
Not saying you’d ever disrespect me, Diary, but I can’t give you all of me.
At least not so fast.
Be patient with me.
My feelings and emotions need healing. You say you can never heal what I never reveal?
Well…
I’ll reveal it slowly.
So you should know, a lot has changed since I last expressed myself between your lines—and somehow, a lot has remained the same.
For starters, I’m still in this joint, toiling to be free.
My clemency petition?
I don’t know if it’s still under consideration. The last governor left office without signing it. So now I’m hoping the new governor shows a nigga some mercy.
But while I wait, I work.
I’m still writing like crazy.
I’ve published a few more news articles. And a couple of weeks ago, I self-published my second book, For Poetry.
And that shit is dope.
I’m getting better at the logistics of self-publishing, too. Every book teaches me something new—not just about writing, but about building something that belongs to me.
My next goal?
For Fiction, Book Two by October.
Then I’m giving everything I’ve got to For Freedom.
Hopefully, by this time next year, it’ll be sitting on bookshelves instead of sitting on top my desk.
I’m also reaching my hands beyond the walls, trying to get published in news publications outside of Prison Journalism Project.
We’ll see how that goes.
But one thing I know for sure:
I’m still fighting for my freedom.
And that fight doesn’t stop until I’m free.
And when I get free?
I’m coming back for the guys.
It’s personal.
This system is a dirty beast. But David didn’t beat Goliath because Goliath was weak. He beat him because David had faith, courage, and the right weapon in his hand.
With the help of the Lord, I believe I can slay this motherfucker, too.
I’m waiting on one more factor before I make my move toward checkmate in that courtroom.
I pray it falls into place soon.
Until then, I’m still jailing.
Reading.
Writing.
Working.
Thinking.
Planning.
Keeping my shit together.
Oh, Diary…
The fight never ends.
The struggle is always in effect.
And no matter how long or how hard they try to keep me trapped, there ain’t no giving up in me.
I’m always plotting and planning—not just for myself, but for the betterment of my people.
Because freedom isn’t just about getting out.
It’s about what you do once you get out.
And when that day comes, I intend to have something worth walking into.
Peace,
Blaq
Dear Diary, what if the space between where I am and where I’m going is exactly where I’m supposed to become the man who can handle freedom?

Trenton Woes
Trenton Woes
We build bonds through hard times
Sitting in a cell on top of an ‘el
Broken hearts from reverted mail
Returned to sender
Truth is she’s been gone since December…21
A neveruary sentence hurts
How do you cope
Pulls or the dope k2’s for the smoke
Weed or a book
So through the bars you can look at a wall and stare as life passes
Like sand in an hourglasses
The days of our lives gets drastic
I watched my man’s mental slip
He took a trip
But he stayed in the same place
Same cell
A mental fair well
These cages are designed to break us
Shake us and spin us
Into another dimension
The hell of us
Fiery souls
Lost in Trenton’s woes
Searching for freedom’s cold
Pieces of me fall to the floor and shatter
Depressingly, I pick pieces of me up
However, pieces of me, are forever missing on the floor of the prison

