Fictitious Realism Equally Expressed

by Starkim

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I just want to be free, free from the brush strokes in this picture, free from the voices that whisper to me while I’m reading, free from seeing the same thing every evening and weekend.

If no one else, free from myself, free from pain, free from these numbers, warm winters and cold summers, free to smile, free as a child in his walker, free from torture, free from oppression, culture freedom in my lessons.

Free to live and free to give the same freedom I desire, now wait, the Devil is a liar, he stultified us, quilted bars in our minds, confined to the word Prison itself, when you lock your doors at night are you free?

Are you free by the turning of a key? Is your freedom an illusion? Is your freedom worth loosing? Was it ever possessed? Is it taken at arrest or last breath? Is freedom though death? Who is freedom? Will you recognize him when you see him?

What is homeland security? You can not be freed from suffering, we are not free from nothing, we are confined to feelings, just as the floor is confined to ceilings, I rose from the seat of my subconscious, opened my eyes to see and like that I was free.

The chains left, free like the breath you take to live, in the mind is where freedom lives, my thoughts were keys that unlocked the mysteries of my misery, free from disgust, free like the painter’s brush, free enough, freedom is a must.

We weren’t freed by Abraham Lincoln if that’s what you’re thinking, freedom is the truth, do you believe him? Can you give everything you ask for?

 

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