Hello again, it’s Bukks,

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I’ve moved on now to a restricted minimum prison now. I just thought I’d write to let you know how I’m doing. It’s a big move for someone who has been in so long and I didn’t really want to do it to be honest. I was happy and comfortable and in jail that is a big thing.

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I’m still writing poetry as a way to get stuff out of me, better than a psych, I think? My pen-pal went home, deported back to her home country. I get to talk to her on the phone when she’s not too busy so it’s all good.

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Why does time move so slow? Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years, year after year. I wonder if other people have ever felt invisible? This is how I feel a lot for some reason. I have been through so much just during this one sentence.

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I started off as basically a kid, drug-using, fighting, running amok and slashing up even. I’m way past that now, I’m a man, I’ve grown, I think? I haven’t slashed up in a long, long time which is one good thing, I guess. I turned to Islam which has helped me so much, but being honest I don’t feel too worthy? What can you do, life’s a trip you know?

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I lost a lot of time to the slot as well, it’s like being in Cryo, like Demolition Man, except you are awake the whole time. I get lonely enough without having to go back there. I have worked my way out of maximum, medium and am now in a restricted minimum. Restricted as it still has a fence around it so you are not going anywhere!

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Would I even run off if I could? Where would I even go? I don’t know what’s left for me outside of these walls? I hate it and sometimes it makes me hate myself? I’m doing stuff now like the TPP so I can get into uni if I want? It’s funny to think I may do uni at what, 45, 46? I won’t be doing it this year so I guess at the year after and that?

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I’m going to be honest with you again, I don’t feel any prouder or anything? Old school poets would call the way I always feel melancholy, or so I’ve learned. I don’t know what if anything I’ll ever get to make of myself? Who cares about a 49/50-year-old who has spent more than half his life in prison and / or juvenile justice centres?

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So what is left for me? I will just keep writing poetry and see what comes of it? It’s not like I’m gifted with any other talents? Too bad I didn’t realise I was actually good at something a lot sooner, what can you do? So, I’m a 44-year-old poet, at a restricted minimum-security prison who still has at least four and a half years left? I just keep on going, you know, what else can I do?

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It’s been a long, long road and I still feel not much closer to the end. If I didn’t say I’m scared of getting out, I’d be a liar! Not that I have to worry about that for a while. I get to eat a lot better here, bonus. I can still write my poems.