The Roots of Remorse
By Adrian S. Mariscal
I feed on myself
Like a lunatic left to starve,
Well fed thanks to my
Legs and an arm,
Carving myself to pieces slowly
Preferring to be numb than lonely,
This is my shame and pain that
I don’t want to write with,
History and labels I can’t
Fight with my fist,
So instead I self-mutilate
By asking myself ‘What if?’
Then I self-medicate with rehabilitation,
High off the distance
Separating me at thirty-two,
Self-educated in prison
With me at eighteen,
Acting a fool eager to catch
One of my enemies slipping,
Until the realization of having blood
On my hands forces me to understand
Change is limited by the hemorrhaging,
The constant remembering
By my victims’ family and mine,
The absence bleeds into every moment,
Into every act of love
Planted in a field of dreams
Cratered by nightmares,
Cause life doesn’t fight fair
Or spare any man’s conscience
But even still,
I am responsible,
In every way that makes me human,
For the true justice that doesn’t stop
When you’re placed inside of a box,
To live and to give beyond
The measure of me at eighteen,
And accept there is no balancing
The good and evil we create,
But for now somebody please
Remind Lady Justice to keep
Her blindfold tied tight,
Because the remorse in itself
Is a life sentence,
The remorse itself is redemption.
The Greatest Actor Alive
By Adrian S. Mariscal
Leave me alone
Along with my masks,
They’re needed to survive the crash,
I have to become something else fast,
Not just to survive but to laugh.
To convince myself my soul
Hasn’t been cut in half,
To be able to stand my reflection
Without being crippled by questions,
A mask for any occasion,
For any devil waiting to greet me
On any level of devastation,
Like when I lost my trial then
Picked up denial to ignore my fears,
Then I picked up hope
Cause the texture was similar
And wore it for years,
Then a mask with a smile on it
To hide all my tears,
Followed by a stoic white one
To hide the grimace left
After losing my last appeal,
Hell, my masks are more real than me,
Understand me as in the dream
That used to be a sentient being,
Before I distorted my imagination
To find meaning in a box
Where underneath all the static props
And sadistic plots my thoughts,
Like troops, fight to become absolutes,
Fighting to shoot proof on the frontlines
Of action, no longer just afterthoughts.
Or abstractions, unravelling then travelling
From being a shadow of a man
To a shadow that gained traction on land,
Then the upper hand that ripped off
One mask after another,
And another then another
Till nothing was left except
Flesh disfigured by the insanity
Of trying to suffocate my humanity with hate,
Which was fake as hell but
Better late to love than never,
So I plan to keep this one mask
Covered in cracks to help me remember
Never to surrender the light that finally broke through!
All That Is Done Here
By Adrian S. Mariscal
Writing for the sake of writing,
Writing like I’m still fighting my case
And all hope hasn’t been lost,
Unaware of the cost of words
But I can’t afford anything
And I’m not a part of the herd
So I’m down to say anything,
And it can make you feel everything
Or nothing but I don’t even care
Cause I’m just writing for the sake of writing,
Like if I can relate to getting home late
Or flaking on dinner dates, cause I’m 13 years late
And mistakes at this point
Are a loser’s way of having fun,
No point to make, I’m a bum in a box
Screaming at my mind to stop
Every time a thought hops over the fence
And goes on the run,
Rally the troops killer on the loose,
Grab your guns and call in the helicopters,
To hell with the lawyers and doctors,
What this guy needs is a bullet,
Finger on the trigger, clear shot, pull it,
Bring him back dead or alive
But I was gonna come back anyway,
No lie, I’m institutionalized,
Hunting down memories till
There’s nothing left to visualize,
I see an enemy when I see myself
Man I think I’m ready to go blind
I think I’m ready to lose my mind,
Sensory deprivation to go with
Spiritual decimation, tell me,
Am I out of line?
Freak’n running out of time?
Guess I’m finally coming home
To the house of bones
Where all we do is
Write for the sake of writing.
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| Adrian S. Mariscal F60045 Pelican Bay State Prison P.O. Box 7500 Crescent City, CA 95532 |
My name is Adrian and I’ve been incarcerated for 15 years and I’m currently in Pelican Bay. I am a College of the Redwoods student and I’m working on earning two A.A. degrees. I also play the guitar and lead worship services here in A-year. I love writing poetry and performing my pieces for visitors and college events. I write about the lessons I’ve learned, my experiences in the prison system, feeling lost, searching for hope and my struggle to become more humane, kind and empathetic. All in all, I am working to earn my parole and return to my family and society better and more wholesome then when I entered the prison system.
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June 29, 2020 at 12:23 amAdrian, how are you my friend? My apologies for not keeping in touch as of late. Been busy running and ripping and moving all over the place. Finally got my own spot. I'll be sending you a letra soon Carnal. God is faithful my Brother and in his word in the book of Isaiah he says "For a mere moment I turned my face from you but I will show you kindness again." That turning of the face does not mean that God has left us or forsaken us or abondoned us. It just means that for a moment and for a season that God is in the process of disciplining us. Take courage and strength Adrian because we know that those seasons dont last forever. Your time will come Brother and your tears will be turned to joy and your sadness to lauphter. I still remember the things we talked about and I will be contacting you soon. Always in his service Pst. Lucero –
Bee
May 20, 2020 at 7:39 pmAs always my Boy. Beautiful talent you have and I hope it takes you far.