Words of a demented prisoner
By
Tony Crowe
1997 to 2004
HMP England
Copyright 1999 Tony Crowe
Published by Tony Crowe
Cover design by Tony Crowe
www.ritanightingale.org
ISBN: 9781466017771
This is the thoughts I had when I was serving twelve years in prison for attempted murder, a crime someone else committed. Some of my thoughts were those of a bitter angry man. That man never came out of prison. I did. By the grace of God I am free and living a life that glorifies Him.
I dedicate this book to all those in prison for someone else's crime; wherever they are.
Remember.
We are all guilty of something.
Other e-books from Tony and Rita
A Murder of Crows Salvation by Tony Crowe
A Murder of Crows Deliverance by Tony Crowe
No Going Back by Rita Crowe (Nee Nightingale)
Content
CP3703, that's me!
The quad
Toot Smack You’ll be Back
The Miracle of Life
How I long for The sea
Do Your Jail
The God Given Life
Why Did Jesus Die For Me?
Time
In The Dock I Stand
Marbles for eyes
The two women in my life
Hung up
Danger-man that's what I am
The good die young
The Stout man
I will love you come what may
Peace
Prison life but just one year
God is everywhere
Love is
Reality of life
C!/see/sea
Whitehaven
I see an Angel
Set sail
Depression
Death by love
Gone fishing
Prison works?
I met a stranger
Room with a view
CP3703, that's me!
The first thing that the prison does to you is give you a number, that number becomes you and your name is lost; It's just another way of taking away your humanity and self, When I told them my name was Tony they wrote down Anthony, the prison don't even give you the credit of knowing your own name, sad.
CP3703, that's me!
I once had a name,
it was given by my mother.
When I came to jail,
it was taken away by another.
CP3703, that's me.
Sometimes even that's reduced to, "last Three?"
No one knows my given name.
When asked I tell them.
(Tony I say)
They don't listen.
They always repeat with.
"Antony" or is that Anthony?
I don't know.
Do they honestly think I don't know my name?
They only ask it so as to take it away.
They lock it in a file.
Only to be taken out at the end of my;
"Rehabilitation" My long mile.
Until then it's; Crowe!
Or, CP3703, whenever they call me.
I feel like a man with no name.
Because there's nobody to call my name.
I feel like a man with no name.
Because without using my name It's forgotten.
Not just by me, But by we.
**********************************
The quad
This is the square where prisoners walk round for one hour a day, usually in the middle of four buildings with high walls all around, or a high fence with razor-wire on the top with rubbish stuck to it. The only thing you can see is the sky right over head, the corners are damp and green from the lack of sunshine. Inside prison it's dark and the smell of human stench fills the air when the locked doors open. This I wrote in about ten minutes and it was only then that I could rid myself of the gloom I had inside of me.
As I walk around the quadrangle.
I look up at the high walls
with their razor-wire tangle.
My mind no longer knows.
Of the things outside these walls
of steel and wire and the
walls of my world just
seem to get higher and higher.
As I walk around the quad.
I think it very odd,
that now after all the time locked away,
my mind will only remember in grey.
How is it that I can no longer see
the faces of people I know?
How is it that I can no longer see
the places where I once used to be?
How is it that I can no longer
dream in colour?
All I see is doom and gloom
of my grey tomb.
No birds sing or even come near,
the blue square over head is
but an empty deserted sphere.
It’s as if a bird was to; happen by.
Enter that patch of blue,
I think is the sky.
The evil would reach right out of here,
then that bird would never again come near.
How is it that I can no longer remember
the sound of a dove?
How is it I can no longer remember
the stars above?
Does the moon still come out at night?
Is it just below the wall; out of sight?
As I walk around the quad
I turn to the one true friend I know.
The one I can trust.
The one who’s love will never go.
As I walk around the quad
I walk with my beloved God.
One hour I walk and pray.
One hour out of a full day.
He never questions or asks my part.
He never asks if I did, or what I art.
He only loves with unconditional grace.
He never leaves me in this place.
Inside it’s just the same.
Everybody is playing a game.
Everybody is playing a game.
It’s just the same.
They’re all like bees in a hive.
The cells are numbered up to fifty-five.
They call them cells or pads.
They even call them rooms.
But in reality they’re just
numbered tombs.
You can lock a man up for year upon year
but the soul of a man will never stay.
For a man with years of bars to frame
his world, becomes angry, bitter,
twisted, and knurled.
His soul deserts him.
That leaves an empty shell;
that leaves an empty shell that must be filled.
Even if that means filling it
with creatures from hell.
To live with men that kill,
with men on drugs, and mentally ill.
To live in prison with men in fear.
To live with men you can’t let near;
is to live alone, or not at all.
Is this place real or just a dream?
Do you dream in colour?
Or black and white,
is this all just one night?
Will I wake up in a cold sweat?
Or is this the best April-Fool yet?
If this is all real.
Then I guess I’m already dead,
and I’ll never awake or get out of bed.
Why am I here if it’s not a dream?
(Not the meaning of life)
Why am I here if it’s not a dream?
How can men lie to
put me in hell?
How can men lie and still live
With themselves,.........................
Do they know what they have done?
Do they know I am my Mother’s Son?
How can men lie, or even; Why?
In prison there are Governors,
And warders, teachers and preachers,
I’m sure you get the “gist”.
They all think they’re a psy-cho-lo-gist.
*****************************************
Toot Smack You’ll be Back
Prison is full of smack, skag, brown, pepper, or whatever you want to call heroin, and after seeing the people around me, and hearing their storeys of woe I wrote this verse to warn them, and anyone else, on that same road to ruing.
Toot smack
you'll be back
think I'm joking
keep on smoking
no more hoping
no more talking
friends all walking
have a dig have a boot
with a pin
have a shoot
do a burg'
get some loot
rob your Mar
rob your Dar
isn't this a bit to far?
Fill the vain melt the brain do it all again is this insane?
Itchy skin
you can't win
what a rush brain of mush
as the plunger down you push
Hep "C "
H.I.V.
Hep "B "
Not for me
on your bed
living dead
pictures in your head
what a dread
like I said!!
Toot smack
you'll be back think I'm joking? Keep on smoking.
*****************************************
The Miracle of Life
This verse I wrote on my Daughter's birthday; it brought back a lot of things long forgotten. The birth of my first child now that truly was a miracle.
The miracle of life happens every day,
It's often like a bright sunny spring May,
But the miracle for me was long ago,
a special day I'm sure you know,
Born of Woman and part of Man,
I'll endeavour to tell you if I can,
Of the day when my life was made whole,
By one new person so fragile and small.
In Carlisle Hospital on the eve of March first,
Where my beloved wife was nursed.
For twenty two hours in pain and dread,
For twenty two hours laid on a bed.
Given drugs to numb the pain,
all they did was scramble the brain, "Franky Howard"!! I don't know,
All the contractions made to go.
In Shed's arm a needle goes,
Once again she's in the wars, What can I do, but watch and wait;
All this worry truly I hate.
I hold her hand, and by her bed I stand.
Forlorn and sad;
But soon to be a brand-new Dad.
Time slips by slowly;
the Doctor says she's very weak but near;
In my eye I feel a tear.
Contractions start to come in a rush, but Shed's too weak;
To push.
Help is in the delivery room,
it doesn't come a moment to soon.
To see the one you love in pain,
To see the one you love again helpless and weak, angelic and meek.
Helpless to do her any good,No matter how much you know you should.
Before you know what's going on, you're asking, "is it a Daughter or a Son?"
There, rapped up in a sheet;
With all gender hidden away. Neat, who's to know; who can tell?
But as the new life came into this world, I had a sneaky look mysel,
A Daughter it was.
All pink and new, not a sound that baby made.
That little bundle that was you.
The price for life we both had paid.
If happy was something you could
But have once in your life.
Then to be with your daughter and beloved wife
would fit the bill to a tee, It certainly did for me.
I went out into the quiet peace to think; Who can I tell?
Who can I let know?
That we who were two, now have you.
I sat for a while and thought!!!
No one would know of this Miracle of life.
Just me your Father and your Mother, my wife.
After a while I went to the phone and made a call.
I started at one; I told them all. After twenty two hours that ended on a high.
Phoning round I couldn't help, but cry.
I cried for you then, I was happy not sad.
I cry for you now for the things I never had.
I remember every minuet of my time with you.
I remember the nights; of waking, of sleeping right through.
What you don't have you cannot miss,
the love of a Woman, your children to kiss.
Once these things you have to hold
You live with the fear of being told.
"Sling your hook, go away, No more can you stay."
To your Children you must say.
"Good-bye for now I'll see you soon, Everything will be all right,
At the weekend you can spend the night." Every weekend, after they stay,
Mother comes to take them away.
Fifty two times a year you have to give them back.
This is something I just can't hack. To lose you once was bad.
To lose my Daughter and my Lad.
To lose the woman who lives in my heart.
To know forever we'll be apart Is not for me an easy thing.
For if I see the ones I love and miss; If these loved ones I cannot kiss.
The hurt I feel inside of me Is very easy for all to see.
Just when things are on the up, I get use to having no wife.
It goes and happens again. That miracle of life And his Mother
Takes Him away from me. I wonder what will happen!!!
We'll have to see.
*****************************************
How I long for the sea
I am an underwater diver and more than anything I miss the sea and the sights and the peace, but most of all I miss the people that I take into this world of inner-space. These words can never show someone how much I miss being underwater. So I wont try, you'll have to look yourself.
O' how I long for the sea,
What delight it holds for me,
I miss so much the water on my face.
I miss the coral with their pattens like lace.
I miss the sea and all that's in it.
The way it's blue. Shimmers in the light.
I even like to Dive at night.
I love to see the Spanish Dancer.
Bright-Red with some white majestically dancing through the night.
It's fins like wings or a dancer's dress; It glides through the water with such finesse.
Then there's the octopus or Cephalopoda; with it's eight arms it's very odd.
It hides away in it's hole.
But all this amounts too is a crack in the wall.
It hides away all through the day;
But the corpses' of crabs always gives it away.
I long to swim with the Dolphins too.
Take in the people all eager and new.
To see in their faces the wonder; awe.
To have them forever begging for more.
To show people sights that few have seen.
To take them where they have never been.
Will I ever have my wish?
Will I again swim with fish?
O' how I long for the ocean,
Quietly rocking in the rhythmic motion.
I can hear the sound of barn
acles feeding. Sea-horses sway in the swell;
To and fro, like a field full of wheat. That's a sight you should know.
I long to be sitting on Davey Jones' locker.
It beats the hell out of watching soccer.
Five and a half thousand dives to show only leaves me wanting more.
O' how I long for the sea, it can be cruel and cold.
But not to me (from times of old.) To see the great and marvellous sight
Is always a privileged delight.
The fish that swim, round and round.
The creatures crawling on the ground. The deep blue water reaching down to the Abyss
When I'm underwater there's nothing amiss.
O' how I long for the sea.
What delights it holds for me, Looking up I see the shafts of light.
Sunbeams sparkling pure and bright.
The tranquil peace and silence there
The sound of bursting bubbles
From breathing air.
In this place time does not exist; the hours slip by and are not missed.
*****************************************
Do Your Jail
There are lots of ways to do your jail and I hope that this will show you some of the ways I've seen people do theirs. At the end of the day all that matters is to do it and survive to be released some day relatively sane, I think I've failed already.
Some do their jail on their bed.
Some do it standing on their head.
Some do it with a heavy heart.
Some do it in doom and dread.
Some can't stand the being apart.
Some have the boredom off to an art.
Some just loose the plot: throw in their lot.
Some live every day as if they've never been away.
Some give up their sanity from the lack of humanity.
Some turn to drugs to replace the missing hugs.
Some use the gymnasium to build up their body
Some just vegetate others find a hobby.
Some say drugs take them out. That I doubt.
Some try to play the game parole is "their" aim.
Some fight every way; in the end the price they pay.
Some say they've done no wrong; that's a familiar song.
Some try to die. All at one time will cry.
Some become bitter inside all emotion they hide.
Some just want out the soul's of men scream and shout.
Some will come back again; they're clearly insane.
Some will never return; a valuable lesson they learn.
Some say jail is all in the head; so is being dead.
Some know nothing outside the walls. They have no goals.
Some are slave to the phone; their world's not their own.