I am a 29 yr old man incarcerated since I was sixteen. Although my focus mainly involves proving my Innocence and taking care of my family, my other skills include what I call “architecting”: drawing, writing and performing music, scripting both plays and screen plays, and inventing and preparing for my future. I write TV shows and pilots as well as poems. If it can be done with a pencil, that’s where I shine.


I saw a sea of stories.

A sea like heightened voices, against which stymied them. Up like waves amidst each other, as each gained strength and courage.

Each a force, an added drop, to the barrier so saturated with their words.

I saw a sea of stories.

That barrier, that rock, that rugged surface refused their reprieve.

That silencing partition that edged them onward on their paths, “move along”, each barrier echoed. “move along”, told each one, set before them to where each one had so ever walked.

Still I saw a sea of stories.

It was THEM that made the way for others to force a new. Each droplet, each sacrifice that barred the surface and hewed out its paths.

Them that paved the new streams unto which each chorus angled to go.

it was them that gave voice to the sea.

and yet I saw that sea of stories.

Each drop showed a memory and its position.

Each step, leading up to its point of current airing.

Each focus, a conduit of its creator amidst its kin.

Its kin, the others who flowed beside it.

they were not silent.

For I saw their sea of stories.

One thousand cries led each in singled chorus. That mix, that readily mingled in one single sound. indistinguishable from its next as it cried to all who gave measure enough to listen. and yet I saw a sea of stories,

only when they lowered, did they find solace enough to bow and drink. Drink from its knowledge and gain from its nourishment.

Only once completed and content did their raging cease into the pools. Each long and winding journey lending beauty to the picture each wave ever hinted to.

Only then did their voices become whispers to sing their hymns. Melodies, of those they had lost.

Yet also, of deliverance gained so lovely.

No. They won’t forget which bore them or sculpted them. Each forcible rock that threatened endings lest they died out and chose their conform.

That ugly and sheer face that sealed to turn them.

That flattened edge that wished to pool them.

No… That would only be too easy.

For, for the memory of each drop that turned the tide only succeeded when their force leveled the rock.

And from it, the oasis was made into beauty still obtainable.

unfettered. unrestrained. uncontrolled.

A silent river overlooked by a gentle sunset.

a gentle breeze, where I….

I saw a sea of stories.

And each story I saw, was beautiful.