Who am I?
Do you know how it feels
to spend your day waiting
in silent hope
for that one moment
when life becomes bearable?
Who am I?
Confined to this cinder block room,
a window my only connection
to a world I once knew,
the rain washing the razor wire clean.
Who am I?
Staring at my watch
as minutes tick slowly by,
I hear footsteps;
it’s mail.
Who am I?
Not forgotten.
No longer marginalized.
Remembered, embraced, fought for.
This is the Prison Journalism Project.