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Prose of a Con

Poetry and Prose by Russell Wardlow

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Mercy

I’m not a Poet, Surprised You didn’t Know it

April 1, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

what I write, isn’t poetry
to me
poetry is clean
direct in its route
impactful in its message
meticulous in its process
vast in its imagination of worlds
creating from conclusions and proclamations, cosigning a specific tone
poetry filters thoughts,
intangibly directing it towards a tangible something,
arriving at a statement, filtered of excess garb and gab
redundancy possibly overwhelming the message intended
poetry assumes an emotion, innovating metrics and metaphors-
playing with language and its neologisms, inside subliminal and ambiguous plots

I’m no storyteller
I don’t wish to learn to write right
I love embodiment and expression
because I’m a physical learner
absorbing emotions and events

poets have more maturity, discipline, composure, and structural form than I
they have more theatrical build-up than my impulsiveness has patience for
though we both have a flair for the dramatic and a desire to express
they have more harmony with the traditional mechanics of language
I detest tradition,
in that it is imprisoning to me creatively and personally,
I am broad in my edges,
and rebelliously sharp in my proclamations-as to compensate for the decades of voicelessness I embodied-
because fear of a truth that I didn’t fit in,
didn’t fit me,
or a truth that did not accept me
rendering me more lonely once exposed to conformity personified in my family, peers, neighbors, strangers, and authority figures,
all which I felt outside of,
and shunned from,
doing anything just to cling to a semblance of their acceptance for what I never naturally inherited-per my physiognomy, genome, geography, and manner of upbringing

but to me,
I take every bit of scrap and create a collage of expressions,
sometimes duplicitous,
sometimes ambiguous,
sometimes ambivalent
sometimes paradoxical
sometimes in prose and parables
I write in a solecism-type style,
with pompous wordy redundant uses of language
implanting colloquialisms, neologisms, euphemisms, and sesquipedalians
to create a raw, unforgiving, matter of fact way of speaking-a slap in the face- with the free flowing form of any conversation, plea, diatribe, and pontification for attention,
usually attached to a rhyme scheme,
as to be entertaining enough to be digestible to help whoever reading arrive at the end,
without leaving a word too soon,
and in that audacious and often witty juxtaposition,
I hope to create an invite into my depth
and the meaning of my words and the why of their usage
because words by themselves for me are hard to have enough attention span to read
but words that are raw expressive and creative,
capturing both imagination and emotion, always lure me in
all I wish to create is either a questioning that creates a journey in itself,
or a purging that creates a look into my depth,
that can’t just be conversed in its natural form
and may summon an empathy or familiarity,
where a bond can be formed
or at least an open wound congealed enough to get to the next barrage of pain and trauma left in wake of moments, before the rigamortis of new scars set in

I’m not a poet
I just prose emotional positions
to purge out my internal calamity
and external insanity

poetry is necessary as a translator
for its vast realism and imaginative impact
and to achieve, it must write and read with an eloquence and beauty
to believe my writing is poetry, you must first investigate and then redefine what your meaning of beauty and eloquence is
but since when have people ever liked change?
at least in their immediate lifespan, change is always spoken of as a point of pride, heroically lauded as a champion of humanity in the lense of history, but that same outlook never occurs interpersonally
change is too threatening
that is a line too uncomfortable to broach or breach, when people pride their comforts over conscience
change is the martyrdom of tradition and complacency,
it doesn’t not come without a fatalistic attempt at resistance, as if the very preservation it seeks will put an end to life, likened to an extinction-level event, if not accomplished
…and I think I’m dramatic?!
but drama is life, and art imitates life
and such is our country I suppose..
all that to say, I’m not a poet
I just Poet
poet justice, poet strength, poet individuality, poet pain, poet spirituality, poet equality, poet expressions, poet emotions, poet reality, poet truth, poet darkness, poet light, poet imbalance, poet balance, poet war, poet peace, poet struggle, poet life, poet death, poet love, poet confusion, poet prose, poet wisdom, poet process, poet growth, poet empowerment, poet imprisonment, poet liberation, poet redemption, poet truth, poet lies
and poet a drink or two and swallow the bittersweet and indifference
I just do me…don’t cage it, let it, me, yourself, and us all be free

Filed Under: Mercy, Spirit

Through Me, to You, and back/ You Two, Plus Me, Equals Three

March 26, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I was
always there
helping you
just look
I was
always there
shedding light
just look
through me
you saw
what not
and also
what to
do so
there was
never darkness
even in
my absence
even in
my mistakes
I showed
you right
from wrong
with rights
and wrongs
I may
have been
lost to
sight but
I never
left you
blind.
Now
I
need
your
guidance,
because
I
want
to
make
it
back
to
you,
to
experience
what
you
have
learned.
Help.
Me.
I took what
I never wanted
you to feel
and felt it
myself alone for
you, though you
hurt still but
life hurts still.
I became the
worst I could
so you could
see what not
to be to
be the best
that you could.
the things we
inherit with the
things we defy
become the things
that define us.
In that great
in between you
find balance and
harmony so you
can finally know
who you are
and what you
can also become.

Filed Under: Love, Mercy, Trauma

Home is Where I Had to Make

March 18, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I feel the beast calling to me
consuming me back into her belly
and it feels so familiar
so warm and homely
nostalgically remembering it being my home
I developed inside of her
cooing like a baby to her grumblings
rocked to sleep by her roars
kept warm by the fire broiling inside of her
and now that she has called me back,
back home
I wonder if this is,
in fact, my true home
because strangely,
I feel more comfortable inside of her belly
as if this was her womb
and birthed the warrior and man that I came to be
what would I be outside of her
who would I be without her
though she breeds danger
I know her softer side
I know her what’s deep inside
because it is where I reside
and the inside is what counts
though the hypocrisy of the world only knows her externally
so she is named, regarded, and judged as doom
and men, wounded men-
seen as savages-
are sent to her to meet their doom
but it was the wretched ways of the world-
that first doomed me-
funny how that works
and as I claim to desire to get back out
to have my freedom above all else
not for the mere fact of having freedom
because I have found that within myself,
but for what I would now do with freedom
yet I found freedom inside, of all places
do I want to get out?
do I really?
the embers of flame brooding inside of her
sending shockwaves to my spine
as my hairs rise like a porcupine’s
salivating as I open my mouth to ventilate
the smoke inhalation is akin to fresh baked cookies out of the oven
and I feast upon my own destruction
what else is there to do?
this, is no place for man
this is no place for mail
but like any cast away,
I was forced to make it a place for me
while I was returned to the belly of the beast
with a note, “damaged male, return to sender”
because the world and I still had things to address
and freedom hadn’t built a home for me yet

Filed Under: Inside, Mercy

helpfuLess

March 12, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

I dream to save the world
I desire to be saved
so while I’m out living my dream
saving the world
who will be here with me
saving me from myself

Filed Under: Mercy, Trauma

As it SEEms

March 11, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

several merchants
and a beggar
each holding something in their hand
besides the beggar
their palms upturned as if they were bearing gifts
but the beggar
and yet they all had something to sell
but the beggar
feeling the need to make myself look better
I went to give to the beggar
but he said “look closer,
my hand is not empty- you are.
I don’t need anything,
for I have everything inside of my hand
and I feel its very weight even now
can’t you see?”
what I understood right then was
ego is ignorant
perception isn’t everything
money buys things,
but answers nothing
and in physics, “displacement” would venture-
him having the whole world in his hand

Filed Under: Mercy, Spirit

Aiming from the Ground (Lyrics)

March 10, 2021 by Russell Wardlow Leave a Comment

(chorus/hook):

I been 100
I keep it 100
I’m going a hunned
I move like 300
I know that you wonder
you wonder, you wonder
yuh
I do it
I did it
I done it, I done it
I’m running
I’m jumping
I’m flying
I’m stunting
I’m coming
you don’t know what’s coming
I came up from nothing
you know that I’m something
I’m something, I’m something!

(verse 1):

and I’m aiming for the Lear
and I’m changing like the gears
and I’m framing every year
so my path will stay clear-while I’m
reflecting in the mirror
sometimes the past may seem too near
sometimes it crashes at the rear, yuh
unh
so I have to stay up in this moment
and all that captures me right here
so I stay hands-on with my drive-I don’t veer I only steer
you only jeer but I say cheers
like drinking beer
I’m going cray-Brittney spears
won’t lose my way-Whitney fears

looking out my prison’s windows
was in prison pens and kennels
was in prison incidental
was imprisoned in my mental
get the memo-whoa
pain inside my ventricles
my spirit was my vehicle
that’s what gave me my neo glow

(bridge):

judged me hard, but forgive him he don’t know
I’ve been knee deep in my woes
tryna dig that glittered gold-cuz they say
you reap what you sow
now you know
all that blossoms blooms unfold
so far that story ain’t been untold
enjoy the show

(chorus/hook):

I been 100
I keep it 100
I’m going a hunned
I move like 300
I know that you wonder
you wonder, you wonder
yuh
I do it
I did it
I done it, I done it
I’m rushing
I’m lunging
I’m plunging
I’m hunting
I’m coming
you don’t know what’s coming
I came up from nothing
u know that I’m something
I’m something I’m something

(verse 2):

they don’t know where we came from
they don’t know how we came up
they don’t know how hard that was
swam in mud and draped in blood
empty fridges
on the fringes
in the trenches
crimes committed
don’t know who did
ain’t no witness
lengthy sentence
no forgiveness
no amends and no repentance
pride was bitten like the fruit that was forbidden
they don’t get it
I hear crickets
thank you critics

cuz this my lift off!
used to be pissed off!
used to be pissed on!
used to be kicked on!
now dirt kicked up!
got the rocks off, wit new kicks ons

(bridge):

judged me hard, but forgive him he don’t know
I’ve been knee deep in woes
tryna dig that glittered gold-cuz they say
you reap what you sow
now you know
all that blossoms blooms unfold
so far that story ain’t been untold
enjoy the show!
WayOfLife

Filed Under: Culture, Inside, Mercy

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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

  • Incited April 15, 2021
  • Wright, Wronged April 15, 2021
  • You, be You, with Us April 15, 2021
  • Oda Keke- (to be upside down and walking in darkness) April 15, 2021
  • Names Hold Weight April 15, 2021

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