Let me paint you a picture—not the kind with bright colors and clean lines. Nah, this one’s smeared with desperation, survival, and a hustle game that never clocks out.
This is prison.
You think people are in here just doing their time, three hots and a cot, maybe reading books and watching TV all day? That’s the Hollywood version.
Let me tell you about the real grind behind these walls.
You either hustle… or you go without. Period.
Soap? Hustle.
Toothpaste? Hustle.
A decent meal that doesn’t taste like wet cardboard? Hustle.
Boxers that ain’t see-through? Yep… hustle.
Everything costs something in here—even if it’s not bought with money. Bartering, trading, wheeling, dealing—this place is its own underground economy. And if you’re not in it, you’re gonna feel it. Hard.
And don’t get it twisted: this isn’t just about comfort. It’s about dignity. About trying to hold onto some piece of yourself in a place designed to strip you down to nothing.
You’ve got guys making handmade cards from ramen wrappers, tattooing with guitar strings and motor parts, pressing jailhouse spreads like they’re running a food truck out of a plastic bag and a stinger.
Me? I’ve hustled too. I’ve drawn, fixed radios, written grievances for people who couldn’t spell their own name, done laundry for people who couldn’t bend down long enough to do it themselves. I’ve given away socks for a ramen, swapped stamps for hygiene, made calls for guys who didn’t have anyone on the outside.
It ain’t glamorous. It ain’t easy. And it sure as hell ain’t fair.
Some dudes will do whatever it takes to survive—whatever it takes. And in that, you see a whole spectrum of humanity: broken, desperate, creative, dangerous, brilliant.
And yet… you know what makes it even more twisted?
The system knows it. And they count on it.
They create these conditions. They take away basic needs. They deny jobs. They charge double for commissary compared to the streets. Then they throw us into a cage and say, “Figure it out.”
So we do.
But don’t confuse surviving with thriving.
Don’t think for a second that hustling in here makes us “lazy felons” or “natural criminals.” Most of us in here had no other way to survive on the streets either. The hustle just changed scenery. From alleyways and trap houses to cell blocks and chow lines.
And yeah, I’ve made mistakes. Big ones. But I’m still a man trying to make it through hell without losing what little of myself I’ve got left. Still trying to send my wife a birthday card even when I don’t have a damn pen. Still trying to keep my mind moving when the walls don’t change and the clocks don’t tick.
Still hustling.
Because in here? If you don’t hustle, you go without.
And even when you’re trying to change, trying to do right, trying to heal—it’s the hustle that keeps you alive long enough to try.
So the next time someone tells you inmates have it easy?
Ask them how easy it is to fight every single day just to afford a bar of soap.
Then get back to me.
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