Creative

As I strive to read this paper, I am constantly bombarded with various forms of attempted conversation.

In the past, I laughed at tree huggers, sandalwood-scented hippy buggers. But all that hatred was ill-fated, now that I'm incarcerated.

Where once I held, a life so charmed, so clean. So pure. Not odd!

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One day we will part, “Yes” you and me, that’s the day they set you free.

I think that God is dead, and he really isn't there, or maybe he is on strike, and he just doesn't care.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is this man I see? Mirror, mirror, on the wall, that man there can't be me?

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In the quiet of my heart, I confess, a burden of guilt, a silent distress.

Somebody’s Daughter Theatre Company (SDTC) began running art workshops with women at Fairlea Women’s Prison over forty years ago.

One cold and windy night, I laid upon my gaol bed, and as I closed my eyes, I heard a voice that said: “Please don’t be afraid, I wish to speak with you, maybe you will listen, to my words that are true.”

No one can see the shame and guilt, trapped behind these eyes. As I sit here in a prison cell, all due to a pack of lies.