Creative

Within that club of egos, I had found a friend. He talked to me of glory and made me want to join. So I sent a few gold coins and received a nonsense letter. I must be a member! In a group of names, I am the unclean one, the token unpublished poet; there always must be one.

The straps of his back-pack chaffed and pulled against his shoulders, the weight of each uneven step threatening to topple him back down the slope. His boots crunched the tiny pebbles that slided and slid, plumes of dust flicking into the still air.

Two words, one name. I was stunned. Gathering my thoughts, I started the mental checklist. Had I pressed the wrong button? No. Was it a stranger answering? No. It was definitely my son, a changed son.

Everyone needs their own happy place. Especially in here. Somewhere to escape the drama and politics of the yard.

There is a place not far from Flinders Street Station, along the bank of the Yarra River, that’s at the centre of everything I love about Melbourne.

A sweet treat using buy-up staples.

Tired from being told what to do. I am tired of love, tired of being deemed guilty, tired of my own remorse. I am tired of my own self-doubt, my own shadows and especially tired of my own face.

Hate’s a strong word, but for you it’s reserved. I hate what you’ve taken from me, my parents, my childhood and my glee.

My blue eyes look so drained, but I’m strong, I’ll make it through.

Being in prison is lonely at night. It’s waiting for letters that friends and family forget to write. It’s sitting around with nothing to do just figuring out who is who.