Freedom

To speak is a gift

But a gift of double curse.

For when we speak,

It is not speech of truth.

When we speak,

It is speech of subservience

To the very

Social

Cultural

Economic

Political

Ideological

Chains that bind our everyday life.

It is speech of servitude,

Molded consciously or not

To the demands of our surroundings.

Whether it be work, school, or

That idle grey newspaper stand

On the far end of the street,

The atmosphere requests,

No, demands,

That we adhere to the invisible

Laws that clamp on our vocal chords.

We must say this.

We mustn’t say that.

The very air constricts and strangles any

Tentative thought, truth, idea.

And when we escape such confines,

Where are we then?

Alone.

Alone in dark, unreachable cells where

Nothing is heard save for the faint echoes

Of our cries, silent screams

Pleading to be heard and understood.

There we can speak, and speak freely.

But what use is speech that no one can hear?

Escaping our lips, those thin wisps of

Sound weave and wind and eventually dissipate,

Lost to the very strands of space and time.

No one shall hear them.

When I speak, I am met with blank stares,

Uncomprehending glances of indifference.

My words garble, catch, and die in my throat.

I yearn to let loose the floodgates

Of my mind, heart, and soul

But such things are forbidden.

The Big Brother of words

Hovers about.

His presence is overpowering

And no one rises in resistance.

My tiny spirits bend to his will,

Accepting his words for mine in resignation.

I am trapped, limited, crushed.

But there is hope for me yet. 

Big Brother does not waste his time

With written word while wisps

Of spoken word are yet to be conquered.

Why should he destroy old relics

When developing tongues are ripe for picking

Shaping and molding?

This is why I write.

For when I write, I am free.

I am free to paint worlds of color,

Of meaning, of significance.

I am free to say what I want

How I want and not be silenced with

The executioner’s axe of conformity. 

I am free to break away from this age’s

Plastic atmosphere, to be a pioneer, forging

New and unknown lands with the tip of my pen.

To some, poetry and writing are avenues of expression.

To others, they are experiences of learning and exploration.

To me, to write is all of these and much more.

Poetry is a language.

One free from restraint,

Open to alteration, and

Subject to interpretation.

To write is to forge that language,

To break those chains,

To be new and different.

Poetry is MY language,

And that is something

nobody can take from me.