When you’ve lived all your life
shackled by such intangible things
as expectations and exogenetic ideologies.

Freedom becomes a song you sing
with the dexterity of a chirping bird
chirping its songs from an aviary
before an audience of bird lovers.

People ask why you aren’t happy
with only the intention of sympathizing
but never ask what it takes to make you happy
or if your happiness is a different shade from theirs.

Much like people paint you their color of free
and never wonder if that is
to you
some new form of bondage.

In my own way and on my own terms
I am free
My freedom is a song I’ll never sing for your entertainment.

It’s a tune I hum to keep my sanity
It’s an artwork you cannot appreciate
without the guidance of the artist.

You cannot process it
because you do not possess the right mindset.

You’re my-freedom intolerant
In my own way and on my own terms

I am free.

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