A CRY FOR FREEDOM © 2008

On days when I do not write,

I drift, inhaling impurities,

With my soul in relief,

Delighting in deep sorrows.

And when this is not possible,

I remain downcast, untreatable,

For social consumption, distant,

But deeply observant.

I see the world without interacting,

As if I were a silent spectator,

And the pain that insists on surfacing within me

Makes silence its legacy.

Writing is the escape, the liberation,

But on days of absent words,

I carry the weight of solitude,

As one who lives but does not feel.

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