Gotta Write
Gotta write, about what? This shit… what shit? This life shit
Nah, I can’t talk about that because, it’s too deep, too many secrets that a nigga can’t repeat. I have a gift to write, I see visions that allows me to put on paper characters that are palpable. But that ain’t enough.
My reality is deep, like a one hundred and thirty year sentence behind the concrete and razor wire tundra. Where the time gets longer, and the sleepy don’t sleep. And the woke is ready to be waked…
Feel me?
I nod to myself because of course I feel me.They talking to themselves answering themselves. I’m writing to myself, peoples disappeared so I’m visiting myself.
Niggas cry, but we tearless. Niggas are loud, but we voiceless. Only shells of our former selves, we once were??? Now we’re only soulless captives, slaves with no spirit. The former US, I figure is looming above this Graveyard, in the form of ghost. Waiting on us to be released. So, it could embrace what we were or what we’ve become.
They call us animals, prisoners, convicts, and inmates. Subscribing to what they call us, we play the part, Wilding out in this mothafucka, jailing, in this mothafucka, and petty telling in this mothafucka.
This mothafucka???
Yeah! This Mothafucka!!!
Yeah!
This mothafucka is the belly of the beast, no man’s land, Big Bertha, the hoosegow! This foreveruary. This is a final destination for too many niggas.
Behind a wall that’s un-climbable and a hundred doors that are unopenable, Behind a window that won’t crack. Freedom is seeable but unattainable. Like a release date that’s one hundred and thirty years away. The condemned must pray, or say fuck it.
Praying to the Almighty power of the appellate division, where court rules are supposedly the Bible, case – law is the scripture, and these crooked ass crackas, posing as gods, raining down unjust judgements are Lady justices’ disciples, judging as if they won’t be judged first.
The faithful put their trust In the court. An affirmation of a conviction is only a test from the Chief Supreme Court Justice above.
The faithless say fuck It, it is what it is. Fuck putting trust in a system that’s fundamentally flawed. Found upon racist ass decisions, “Dread Scott “ and “Plessy”.
“Fuck it niggas” say – fuck it – and put their trust on their ability to corrupt a cop. Drugs, so they could get high enough to escape, a cellphone so they could social media relate.
This here is a reversed Graveyard where niggas are buried alive, with their souls hovering over. Waiting, when present and past can embrace.
Dear Diary 6
Affirmation:
I choose kindness, positivity, and self-awareness to guide my words and actions today.
—
Dear Diary,
Today I began a challenging, thought-provoking journey: seven days of saying nothing negative. At first glance, it seems simple. But is it really? Let me share the steps guiding my quest:
1. Set Clear Intentions
Start each day with a goal. Write down a positive affirmation like, “I choose kindness and positivity today.”
2. Increase Awareness
Think before speaking. Ask yourself, “Is this necessary? Is it kind? Is it constructive?”
3. Reframe Negative Thoughts
Instead of complaining, focus on solutions. For example, rather than saying, “It’s so cold outside,” try, “This weather makes me appreciate being cozy indoors.”
4. Practice Gratitude
Reflect on what’s good. Today, I’m grateful for:
1. My Lord.
2. My sanity.
3. My health.
5. Surround Yourself with Positivity
Seek uplifting books, music, or people, and avoid drama or excessive negativity.
6. Use Substitutions
Replace negative phrases with neutral or positive ones. For instance, instead of saying, “I hate Mondays,” I’ll say, “Monday is a fresh start.”
7. Forgive Yourself for Slip-Ups
Mistakes happen. Acknowledge them, apologize if needed, and move forward.
8. Reflect Daily
Journal about the experience, noting successes and how reframing negativity impacts your mood.
—
Dear Diary,
Here’s how today went:
I started hopeful and optimistic, ready to embrace this challenge. But almost immediately, I slipped. Someone told me yard was canceled due to snow, and I blurted, “Damn, this is some bullshit!” Mistake number one. I reminded myself to stay aware.
As the day unfolded, I noticed how deeply ingrained negativity is—in my thoughts, my surroundings, even in the words of those I consider positive. It made me question: What defines negativity? Is it shaped by religion, culture, community, environment, or the individual?
I’m in one of the most negative places in New Jersey, yet even here, positivity exists. Still, the contrast is stark. I work in the cookhouse, and I’ve observed that some of the free staff are more negative than the incarcerated men. It’s ironic—and humbling.
I find substituting negative phrases with positive ones to be a challenge. For now, I remain silent when I can’t find the words. But I’ll try harder. For example, instead of saying, “I hate my job in the cookhouse,” I’ll say, “I’m grateful for meaningful work.”
Forgiving myself for slip-ups feels crucial. If I don’t forgive myself, who will?
—
Dear Diary,
What is negativity? What is positivity? Who decides what’s kind or constructive? Can positivity even exist without negativity to contrast it? And, Dear Diary, who are we to strive to be godly in a world that thrives on duality?
Dear Diary 5
Daily Affirmation: “I will not let someone else’s indifference dictate my well-being or silence my fight for proper care.”
—
Dear Diary,
Medical care in NJSP is a nightmare. It’s not just rough—it’s terrifying. The doctors openly wear their indifference on their faces, and their hostile tones make it clear that they don’t view us as patients in need of care but as adversaries.
On December 18, 2024, I visited medical for the fourth time in a month regarding a condition I’m dealing with. The doctor greeted me with a cold, judgmental glare and barked, “What’s the problem?” Her tone was anything but compassionate.
I explained, once again, that I was experiencing the same issue and that the pain was worsening. She barely acknowledged my words, her attention fixed on her computer screen. She skimmed through my treatment records, searching for an excuse to dismiss me. “It says here we did this… and this…” she rattled off, as though checking boxes could cure my pain.
“But I’m still in pain, and it’s getting worse,” I insisted.
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you,” she snapped.
Our conversation spiraled into an argument. Isn’t it her duty as a doctor to help me uncover the cause of my pain and work toward a solution? Instead, it felt like her priority was to brush me off.
It’s as if the policy here—between NJSP and Rutgers Health—is to delay care until it’s too late to help. Why should anyone have to fight so hard for basic medical attention in a facility that claims responsibility for our welfare?
Desperate to make her listen, I mentioned an article I’d read in The Guardian US. It detailed how, between 2019 and 2022, over 200 incarcerated men in NJ DOC facilities died from treatable conditions. That finally got her attention.
But why does it take invoking death and public scrutiny to make them care?
Dear Diary, why are incarcerated men treated like the scum of the earth by the very medical providers entrusted with their lives?
Dear Diary, how can society allow these injustices to persist without demanding accountability?
Eternity Eyes
Her acerbic comments
Fell upon deaf ears like comets
Awaken to her bang
Her theory is ultra
Color her culture big
Her thoughts dig deep into my soul
Her eyes are planets of gold
Where stories run untold
To look into her eyes is to live and die
Color her contra Medusa
State into her eyes and enter a world beyond
Perhaps heaven
Perhaps hell
Perhaps just another world
Where luxury was free
And poverty cost
Crime was criminal because what for
Where evil was a minimal existence
Triggered by the abundance of good
For her welcoming eyes said a little evil keeps good absolute
Her eyes are planets of fruit
Strawberries and cherries
A red sanctuary world
Filled of passion and lust
And deeds that were murderous
Mountains of red sin
Committed by sexy women and handsome men
Colt .45 and race horses is how we committed crime
Ex and weed were plentiful
Cocaine was subliminal
Any kind of heroin was criminal
That would get you shot
The strawberries and cherries that held her eyes
Tasted alive
Her essence danced on my tung
The flavor of a pare and a plumb
Her eyes were wide and vast
Long stories shaped in the form of an hourglass
Her eyes were time
Cosmic sublime
Colored long ago
Enter her thoughts and lose control
Her wisdom was an unnatural flow or order
Ordinary order was disorder
Never think accordingly
Step out of the ordinary box and rock
Was her wisdom
Her wisdom was of the lost gods
Who were lost before time
She had knowledge of things that the universe hadn’t seen
Who was she
Perhaps she was time lost
Perhaps she was time found
Perhaps she was time abound
Eternity
The thoughts she conveyed through her eyes were controlling me
Her are bombs
Constant and divine explosion erupted
Uncorrupted
Pure fire and desire
An empire built on lust’s booms and bangs
Ohs and ahs
Her pupils are alive
And I danced to the rhythm of her wisdom
She was a multidimensional prism
Her wisdom was words of freedom
And every tail that she told I believed in
She told me that she wasn’t God
But she was who God created first
So believe in her
Her eyes are deep and dark inkwells
Color her spells black magic
She turned men into giants
Defiant of man made laws
Her ink wrote the clause to what every man belonged
The before and the after
Her ink was boundless
She wrote the stars into existence and even Mars
She was the universe’s universe
She is large and incomprehensible
The only way to understand was to look into her eyes
Dear Diary 3
Daily Affirmation: “I will surround myself with actions that match words, and I will give the love and loyalty I hope to receive.”
—
Dear Diary,
Loyalty is an action. Love is an action. Yet, so many people throw these words around recklessly, spewing them from their mouths without any intention of standing by them.
If you love me, show me. If you’re loyal, how and to what extent?
The words loyalty and love carry weight; they leave marks on the heart. They’re impactful, shaping who we are and how we view the world. So why do people say these words without meaning them?
I’ve been told so many times, “I love you… I got you, bro… I’m going to hold you down.” And yet, not one person has lived up to their testament. Their dishonesty—or reckless use of these powerful words—left me hurt.
Over time, I’ve grown used to hearing empty promises. A callous has built around my heart, and all talk has become cheap. Don’t tell me; show me.
I strive to be a man of my word. If I say I love you, I’ll show you through my actions. That’s what real love and loyalty mean to me. But when others had the opportunity to show me love, they failed miserably.
I’m not crying about it, nor am I bitter. I’m simply aware now. I understand that love and loyalty are rare. And when I find them, I’ll hold on tight and place them in my heart forever.
Dear Diary,
If I died today in this lowly state, who would care? Who would pick up the work I’ve started and carry it forward?
I’m trying to build an empire. But how can I do it from here—with no love, no loyalty?
Sincerely,
Kory
Dear Diary, can love and loyalty truly exist in a world where actions often fall short of words?
Dear Diary 2
Daily Affirmation: “My past does not define me; my growth and vision for the future do.”
Dear Diary,
In prison, your only personal connection to the outside world is memories. Memories of what you used to do and who you used to be. And pictures of the old you keep those memories fresh.
Memories, memories.
My memories led to me getting sentenced to a century and some change. In hindsight, I wonder how I didn’t see it coming. I’m in pictures with shady characters, living life in the fast lane. In those pictures, I’m smiling—but I should’ve been frowning, knowing where I was headed.
Hindsight is 20/20.
Now, I have to build new memories and introduce new characters in my story called life. My past doesn’t define me—my growth does. And I see myself growing a family and creating memories with them.
So, sayonara to old friends, and here’s a toast to new memories.
Dear Diary, what memories are worth holding onto, and which ones are best left behind?
Dear Diary
Daily Affirmation: “I am resilient, guided by faith, and equipped to overcome every challenge in my path.”
Dear Diary,
What do you want to hear? How I’m feeling? Does anyone even care?
But since you’re here, I’ll tell you. I’m frustrated, anxious, worried, and oddly at peace—all at the same time.
Peace? Yeah, because I know I’m on a journey guided by God. I’m learning to fulfill what it means to be a man, step by step:
Emotional: I’m learning to keep my emotions in check.
Intellectual: My mind is sharp, but there’s still more to learn.
Social: Needs work—I’ll admit that.
Spiritual: I’m reconnecting with my faith, and it feels good.
Occupational: I’m a writer, author, and hustler, making something out of nothing.
Environmental: I hate where I am. Prison is a hard, dark place—no joke. But I’ve learned to navigate this world, and every smile I crack here is a testament to my resilience.
Physical: I’m injured. I don’t know what’s wrong, and I can’t work out the way I want to. That worries me.
And yet, I’m anxious because Governor Phil Murphy signed an executive order for expedited clemency reviews for cases like mine—extreme trial penalties.
Let me break it down: An extreme trial penalty is when a prosecutor offers you a plea deal (22 years, in my case), but if you reject it and lose at trial, you get slammed with a much harsher sentence. That’s what happened to me. I stood up for my right to a fair trial and got hit with 130 years.
The Governor said this practice is wrong, and I meet the criteria for his executive order. So I’m anxious—waiting. What will he do?
To be, or not to be free… That’s the question weighing on me.
Frustration? Oh, I’ve got plenty. The pace of my case against the stenographer is infuriating. It feels like they’re trying to sweep it under the rug. Here’s the thing:
The prosecutor was married to the stenographer at my trial.
My trial transcripts—the very record of what happened—are missing key parts.
They worked me. And now, I’m fighting to expose it.
Dear Diary, my thoughts are as tangled as my emotions. Some days, it feels like the fight will never end. But I’ve come too far to quit.
— If a plea deal could take your life away for standing up for your trial rights, what would you do? Talk to me in the comments — and subscribe so you don’t miss the next entry.
Sunset Serenade
To be or not to be in love with your smile,
I’m digging your freedom, together we’re wild.
Singularly stunning, yet as one, we’re a style,
Our passions erupt, melting boundaries mile after mile.Who am I without you?
Untrue to my soul.
Your divine eyes, colored like sunshine,
Drive me to lose control.I exalt you, my queen, you reign over me.
I’m your king when I’m on top, setting us free.
Our heights together make sentences blur,
But say my name, if your love is sure.To free a dove is endless love,
Turning a thug to a man—a vow above.
I’ll sing my love for you in a tune so deep,
Strumming the chords of your soul’s heartbeat.I’ll drum your rhythm with steady hands,
Whisper your melody in a way that demands:
Sing my name, express your care,
Tell me you can’t breathe without my air.Touch me, tease me, kiss me, please me,
Sometimes I go hard, other times easy.
Rough yet gentle, beyond the physical—it’s mental.Your words, melodic, unlock confessions,
Bringing to life these deep obsessions.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
One In A Million gansta’s never die
Gangstas never die so not would Teena or I. In some remarkable way, we dodged the law and faded off into the sunset.
In the aftermath of our escape, Teena and I found ourselves navigating the world that we loved. An underworld fraught with challenges and full of danger. We were constantly ducking bullets and fleeing the scene of a caper, money bag in our grip.
And the law hated us! They dogged our every move. Most wanted Blaq and Teena.
We raced through the night. Our love burning bright, like fire shooting out of the pipe.
We switched cars like we switched disguise. Constantly. We went from the ’69 Camaro to a sleek black ’69 firebird. We were ahead of the law and all of the others trouble that we caused.
Teena’s red hot steaming presence and my cool calculated demeanor kept us in some shit. We were the perfect duo in this game of cops and robbers, cat and mouse, gangsta and gangstress.
As we raced through the cityscapes and the country’s rural landscapes our bond depend. I held Teena in my arms. My hand was caressing the inside of her thy. And I was staring into her eyes mesmerized by her gangsta’s spirit.
I whispered in her ear “lets dodge the law forever and marry at the end of the sunset.”
She giggled as if she was tickled, “let’s pile the loot up forever.” Said Teena. “Marriage… Ha” She mocked. “Never!”
She twisted my dreads. Her love was so insincere. She loved the way that I cared and the way that fire shot out of my gun.
Me and Teena’s notoriety increased. In the streets the whispers of our exploits echoed deep. The love was steep. Any gangsta would kill a gangsta for the notoriety that came with killing a gangsta. Blaq and Teena were big gangstas.Tommy gun – Bonnie and Clyde shit.
Our modern whip was a stolen spaceship. Hellcat – and I was doing the dashboard. Teena whispered in my ear, make this pussy roar…”
I mashed the gas harder and fire shot out of the pipe. I bust Teena in the stolen Mustang, I sucked her in the hellcat and I made love to her in our hidden home. Teena said, “Lets make some babies and lie low forever.”
I giggled because I was sincerely tickled. I said, “just blow on my dice and raise the stakes.”
Teena giggled I know that she was tickled by the style in which I wore my dreads and by the way that I put it down in the bed. She rolled her eyes and said “the way that you be putting the dick on me is amazing.”
The capers that we pulled off were amazing. We divided the loot in dimly lit hideouts surrounded by guns and stacks of cash. And I still made sure that I gave her a bit more than half because she was my better half.
“Lets roam the world. And let me shower you with luxury linens, diamonds and pearls,” said I.
Teena giggled as if she was tickled. She loved my cleverness and the way that my words flowed.
“I prefer you showering me with guns and diamonds, and the world is ours.”
“Word.”
Our love for the thrill of the chase fueled our passion and each heist was a dance between danger and desire. We planned our next move in the midst of love making. Our love expressed not – in the conventional but through a symphony of gunfire and screeching tires.
What a life – what a life to live on the run from the law, fast car, money racks, tommy gun and a bad broad. I loved Teena for her. I was him. So she loved me for me.
New characters entered our story. Gangstas that wanted our lights dimmed. Only, because Teena and I were them!
Fake allies Tim and Kim turned into real adversaries over night.
An overzealous Kim got hyped over a botched heist. The cops arrived and in a blaze of glory, Teena shit Kim out of a sticky situation. It was Teena’s gun that cleared the way for Kim’s great escape.
Since Kim didn’t get the chance to grab her loot, she decided to breach the contract, and want a portion of our take. Teena and I wanted to spread the love in the form of a portion of our take. But Kim wanted half.
“Ha” Teena laughed in Kim’s face.
Kim pulled her blade. I pulled my Colt M1911 and put it in Kim’s face. Then Tim pulled his .357 Smith & Weston revolver and put it to the back of Teena’s head.
“A Mexican standoff off perhaps “ said Tim.
“Kill her” said Teena.
Now if I killed Kim, Teena would be shot in the head by Tim. By my calculations I still would be able to kill Tim before he turned his gun on me. What a conundrum? Because when the smoke cleared, Teena would be gone. So the Colt, I lowered it. Tim lowered his .357 and Kim sheathed her blade.
“Let cooler heads prevail” said Tim
Kim made the mistake of pulling her blade and not using it.
Now Teena was red-hot. And despite what Tim said, Teena’s temperature didn’t drop. So, for, Teena’s sake I upped the Colt m1911 put it to Tim’s head and popped his top.
And all that Kim could do was watch as me and Teena loaded Tim’s loot in our bag..
“Now live with the decisions that you picked.” Teena said to Kim as we slid off cool.
The underworld is a twisted web and alliances can be as fleeting as the wind. So was the story of Tim and Kim. An unexpected twist turned into an unexpected win. “More money for us,” said Teena. We coasted through the night, it was moments like this that strengthened our outlaw love.
Teena with her cinnamon complexion and her fiery spirit remained my constant. “Lets chase the chaos and run from love,” said Teena.
I giggled because I was tickled. Our understanding of love was unspoken. What we had was beyond words, ours was expressed through gunshots. Pop Pop Pop.
Teena was a steamer. Her dreads were red and I loved when they were wrapped in a bun. Or, even better, when they blew in the wind and swung.
In the moonlit hour, with the scent of gas, gunpowder, burning rubber and adrenalin in the air, Teena and I stole moments of intimacy. Amidst the chaos, we made love in the backseat of stolen cars, or secluded hideouts. Our bond deepened. Proving that even in the darkest corners love could blossom.
We were big wanted. FBI’S top two. Blaq and Teena our togetherness was optimal.
The law zeroed in but we were not ready to surrender. So I mashed the gas and Teena stuck her head out of the window and fired shots at the cops.
Our journey continued the road before us stretching out like an uncertain path. Teena’s laughter echoed in the night. And, as we sped into the unknown, our story of crime, love and adventure carried on. Leaving a trail of dust in our wake.
So
So the saga of Blaq and Teena continued. A tale of two outlaws bound by something deep and gangsta and fueled by the thrill of the chase.
Blaq and Teena…
Snow
It was a cold and stormy when the night. Snow filled the ground along with sheets of ice. The wind’s blow was fierce and whipping. The street lamps blew out the road was without light. Dark and cold Missy could not see a soul in sight. The homes on this abandoned street were dark gloomy they held no life.
Tracking through the snow Missy was full of fright. She was screaming “Hello”. Her full length fur blew with the wind, her scarf was tied around her face, her blue jeans were painted on and her Columbia boots were strapped up tight.
Step by step Missy trudged through the knee high snow, she looked right, the wind blew the snow blinding her sight. She looked left, there ran a stray dog, still not a soul in sight.
No car. Missy’s vehicle crashed at the light. Her phone died, the freezing temperatures drained its life. “Hello” Missy called out into the night.
Trudging through the snow with all of her mite, tears and snow filled her eyes blurring her sight. Missy wished she listened to her husband and brought with her a gun or a knife. Her heart swelled with emotions, horror, terror she was in fear for her life.
As the tears ran down her face, she longed for her husband, a human or light. Missy wondered if it would be safe to stay in one of the vacant homes for the night? The snow was wet, whipping and white. The wind blew her back and forth from left to right.
Missy continued with the heart of a lion and all of her mite. Stay in one of the forgotten homes? Perhaps she might. Trembles turned into tremors when a wolf howled into the night.
All of a sudden, a grating scream came from beneath the ice. Missy shook uncontrollably. She was filled with dread and fright. The being that was playing this game was not nice. Scared and with no sense of direction, Missy turned left pushing through the snow headed to the home with our any light.
Missy turned the knob frantically, the door was locked tight. The windows were broken, but how would she reach such a height! “Hello” Missy yelled up into the night
“Yes?” Out of nowhere a withered old lady appeared before missy’ sight. The old lady was naked and her skin was sagging, falling off of her bones. How was she still with life? So frightening, Missy proceeded in flight. One step two step… on the third step the withered old lady screeched out into the night “How dare you be so impolite.”
Missy kept moving, step by step she trudged through the night. The wind was still whipping and blowing snow and blinding her sight. Missy lost her direction, from which way did she come? Left or right?
Missy turned left and trekked still not a soul in sight. How longer could she travel like this before she succumbed to frostbite? Her hands and her toes were numb still she trekked on with all of her mite.
Upon the snarl of a girl, Missy turned right. The girl was barely above the snow, she had fangs that glistened bright. She snapped at Missy. However, Missy dodged her bight. The fanged girl could not give chase, she was stuck in the ice. However she snarled, “ you will not make it through the night.”
With great trepidation, Missy trucked through the night. The air was no longer silent, the howling, the screeching, the grating, and snarling was all coming from under the ice. Missy’ troubles were many: the dead was chasing her and she feared her limbs would suffer frostbite.
Missy was shivering with fear and the snow was wet, whipping and white
Howls, screeches, snarls, an unearthly rite, Echoed from under the ice, a sinister plight. Shivering in fear, in the whipping white, Missy ventured further into the endless night.
Frostbite’s grasp, a merciless sprite, Her fate sealed, swallowed by the icy blight.
