• Skip to primary navigation
  • Skip to main content
  • Skip to primary sidebar
  • Skip to footer

Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

  • Home
  • About
  • Prose
    • Culture
    • Inside
    • Love
    • Mercy
    • Spirit
    • Trauma
  • Listen
  • News
  • Connect
  • Support

I don’t look beneath me like a giant

February 25, 2020 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I don’t look beneath me like a giant
leave me to my own devices
I see poltergeists
and many guises and many guys in different disguises
despise and spite of all kinds mixed with defiance
Connectedly disconnected like Verizon
I’m sharp like a trident
I fight til my triumph
collide with a titan
so I don’t know what it means when you say you trying
just so I could journey further, I’ll push beyond resistance like a hymen
coming forth wit my demons inside me
and my conscience behind me
no mirrors, mirrors remind me
that I still can’t ever find me
feel like a vampire inside it
believe me I try to keep my sanity vise gripped
but you only hold on to those things worth holding onto, like prizes
I run from normalcy dodging like Chryslers
take heed to the blind because they see more than just eyelids
I’m living lifeless
I’m feeling like life is
fulfilling with crisis
no one is righteous
no one is right then
remember the innards of gates
the embers of hate
and what they did to your faith
succumbing to the dysfunctional family members of fate
critics dismember your name
all agendas considered til you begin to deflate
November December the same
celebrating mere moments, hello hollow days-
thank u for giving me minutes of fame
no signal but calling out timber-
my temper can’t always hang
when the temperature change
cold weather hinders the rain
glimmers of clarity, shimmered
then parody slithered and entered right into my injured yet enduring brain
I figured its pain
a symptom, system and gender of gain
numb on the surface yet my center is shame
feel like the winter, inside of me ugly, my inner is vain
but I won’t pretend to be beautiful, these are the rigors of change
I am no victim
I have the resolve of a victor
fear is evicted
u can’t fit in the picture
but I’ll pour you a pitcher, in case your image is drained
maybe you’ll get it, or maybe u can’t
I welcome the strain
I wanna get what I can’t
I battle restraint
my vivid words depicting inner symbols of deeper peace and wisdom
rekindled like memory,
deciphering details-
in dramatic paintings searching for deeper meaning between the pixels and grain
I’m just tryna behold the art inside of my frame

Filed Under: Inside, Spirit

Reader Interactions

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Primary Sidebar

Prose of a Con

Prose of a Con is a collection of Russell Wardlow’s prose and poetry written entirely behind bars. Through writings on family, spirituality, freedom, love, justice, redemption, and vulnerability, Russell seeks to show the humanity and hope of individuals like himself who are incarcerated.

Read More

  • Whose Mind is it Anyway June 30, 2022
  • Objects June 30, 2022
  • Same Thang, Different Name June 30, 2022
  • Optical Ill-lusions June 30, 2022
  • Hollow Symbols June 30, 2022

Themes

  • Culture
  • Inside
  • Love
  • Mercy
  • Spirit
  • Trauma
  • Uncategorized

Footer

Prose of a Con

Prose of a Con is sponsored by giveabeat.org

  • Instagram

Navigation

  • Home
  • About
  • Prose
  • Listen
  • News
  • Connect
  • Support

Themes

  • Culture
  • Inside
  • Love
  • Mercy
  • Spirit
  • Trauma
  • Uncategorized

Prose of a Con © 2025 · web design by Studio Lyko