Tag: affirmations

Dear Diary  #12

~ korymcclary1221 ~ 1 Comment

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

Dear Diary 4

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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?

Dear Diary 10

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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?

https://a.co/d/0bHlrEn2
Available on Amazon

Dear Diary 9

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Affirmation: My growth is a quiet revolution, and every lesson I learn unlocks a greater version of me.

Dear Diary,
I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been low for a while.
Reading wild, crazy, un-in-love, wishing on a star for a dove to appear from the walls of this cell.
I know it may seem impossible.

Nothing is impossible. I’ve seen a man disappear into thin air and come back like nothing happened… Facts!

For the dove, I’ll wait—because patience is a virtue. And Allah said:
“Follow the revelation sent to you. And be patient until Allah gives judgment. And He is the best of judges.”

So patient I am, waiting for my destiny to be free.

My poetry is deep—I know.
I’m in a liberating flow, unshackling parts of me I didn’t even know were arrested.
I’m unlocking new levels of self and discovering the wealth of self.

So my absence from putting this black ink on white paper has not been in vain.

Oh Diary, I’m elevating quietly.
Chipping at my weaknesses loudly.
I can hear my old friends sigh when they hear old parts of me hit the floor.

A friend is a friend for how long?
Until friction causes distance or swords are drawn?

My entire being is a new thought, born from a decades-long friction between me and myself:
To be or not to be Kory McClary?

I be HIM because he be’s me.

And with that said—when swords are drawn, murders occur.
And it’s back to Kory McClary the writer… Blaq is dead.

Dear Diary,
Do I write my life away and reveal the secrets of me, or stay silent and remain unfree?

Dear Diary 8

~ korymcclary1221 ~ 1 Comment

Affirmation: Every step I take, no matter how small, is a step toward understanding my purpose.

Dear Diary,
What’s the highest elevation of the self?
Is it wealth or glory?
Is the highest elevation of the self even a true story?
Like, is it possible?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m a philosopher, searching for the truth. Religion says searching is a form of Lucifer, but I’m just a questioner—a quester.
I don’t know.

I want my tomorrow to be better than my today.
Sometimes I fall.
Sometimes I stay in place.
Sometimes I elevate.

At the end of the day, I wonder: what progress was made? What even determines progress?
Is it the accumulation of wealth?
The preservation of health?
Or the pursuit of the highest elevation of the self?

Dear Diary,
I get confused by the rules of life.
To change the world is to change my sight.
Am I right, or am I wrong?
Left, or right?

I followed the path—and I was wrong.
I abandoned the ship; swimming took courage and strength.
But I’m strong.

Dear Diary,
Allow my legacy to reach the stars and beyond eternity. Allow the universe to embrace me.

What defines the highest elevation of the self—success in the world, or peace within it?

Dear Diary 7

~ korymcclary1221 ~ 1 Comment

Affirmation: I may be tired, but at least I’m not the guy who gets dunked on in footsketball.—

Dear Diary,

Since I’ve been working in the cookhouse, I’ve been missing a lot of yard time. Yard goes out at 8:00 AM, and honestly, I’m too exhausted to make it.

I work from 10:00 AM until about 5:30 or 6:00 PM every day. By the time I get back, take a shower, and lock into my cell, it’s usually 15 minutes to 7:00 PM.

I’ll spend some time grinding on the jawn until 1 or 2 in the morning. Then I pass out. So yeah, mornings? Not my strong suit.

Every night I lie to myself, saying, “Tomorrow, I’m making it to yard.” And every morning, I wake up like, “Yeah… maybe next time.” It’s disappointing, though, because I need that workout. Sweating it out helps me stay healthy, keeps the stress down, and gives me a moment to just breathe fresh air—if you can even call it that in here.

But, man, this cookhouse gig is stealing my energy and my creativity. I’m ready to throw in the towel. Not literally, though—those towels are hard to come by. Anyway, the cookhouse isn’t even the focus of this entry,

Diary. I finally made it to the gym today, and let me tell you, running up and down the court with these young dudes felt like sweet freedom… until the bruises set in. Basketball in Trenton isn’t basketball; it’s footsketball. It’s not a game—it’s war.Now my body is screaming at me, every muscle reminding me of those missed mornings in the yard.

But honestly? The exhaustion is worth it. There’s something about the sweat, the heavy breathing, and even the occasional elbow to the ribs that makes me feel alive.

Dear Diary,I am hurtin’.—

Is it still called a “victory lap” if you’re limping the whole way?

Dear Diary 6

~ korymcclary1221 ~ 1 Comment

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

~ korymcclary1221 ~ 1 Comment

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?