Freedom,
my passion yet my despair,
taken for granted by society,
yet to those outside society it is...
of value beyond measure.
Freedom makes some think of the sun,
rays of warming light,
I myself consider a pen the ultimate feedom,
for what is freedom if not,
the everyday objects we depend on.
Freedom is everything, yet nothing.
Freedom is to speak, to laugh, to cry,
to write and sing, to feel alive, to choose,
to see and to feel....to die.
For truly, what is life if not these?
Author notes
I wrote this for a poetry class I did a long time ago, overcoming writers blocks and have just now rediscovered it.
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