Death By Incarceration

Death By Incarceration

By Quentin Jones

Here I am confined to a space designed to eradicate the last traces of humanity remaining after the war over my sanity.

The dark walls stare at me reeking of the past torture that has been inflicted upon the minds of men fighting not succumb to dangers of losing self.

It’s cold in this concrete jungle and I’m not talking about the temperature, I’m speaking about the temperament of the overseers overseeing my existence.

The ones who label my proud display of Black manhood as a threat to the systematic annihilation of the divine nature of I-Self-Lord-And-Master.

I refuse to let you master me, so this torture that you disguise as justice and use as a tool to break and enslave men, will only make me stronger!

Strong like the smell of urine seeping out of the metal toilet a foot away from my head that I rest on a steel bunk counting bricks daily to utilize that which keeps me relevant.

To some it’s hell on earth, yet instill it gets worse in the middle of the night when I lie motionless trying to ignore the hunger pains eating away at my flesh. It feels like a slow death.

The war wages on but I remain strong finding salvation in my refusal to let them break me.

Every passing day wears on my soul and in my mind I keep thinking they deem me irredeemable at 18 years old.


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