Writing Prompt

Oh, to leave the world behind, The grinding wheel, the weary mind, The chains of life, once harsh and tight, Slip softly into the velvet night.

The breathe you bore the pain you bore, Are the weights you’ll carry never more, The birds, soaring high among the stars of the night sky, A housand echoes of goodbye.

To close the eyes that knew such pain, To fold the hands that broke in strain, It is not defeat, but a sweet release, A final dance, a quiet peace.

They cry, for love doe not let go, It stays, it aches, it hurts, But even as the tears fall one by one, You feel no remorse as the fight is done.

You are free to soar, free to fly, As your soul drifts up to the sky, For in that freedom there is no fear, Just open skies, a soft embrace, A freedom found in death’s sweet grace.

Trapped in a cage Where my wings cannot feel the wind I hawk at the metal bars Screaming for my wings to flap I use my beak chopping for freedom But these metal bars are unbreakable

Trapped in a cage My said owner talks to me in a foreign language I hawk to other birds for help They cannot hear me as I watch them fly by Past my owners bedroom window Where I yearn to be one of them

Trapped in a cage Where one day I will fly again With the wind beating against my wings I dream of this moment To be free like every other human is But I lack the freedom

freedom- 1. the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants**** ****“we have the right to a freedom of speech.” 2. the state of not being imprisoned or enslaved. “he kicked his way to freedom.”

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Freedom. Are we ever really free? Or did we just escape one set of rules to another?

Freedom. I do not believe in freedom.

Freedom. Is a funny thing.

The shark is not free. The shark is caged by the ocean.

The bird is not free. The bird is trapped in the air.

The trees are not free. The trees are stuck, rooted in the ground, and stuck in the soil.

You are even less free. You are stuck, trapped, caged by the rules of society.

Freedom. Not even in death are we free. Trapped in heaven. Maybe hell. Trapped in Valhalla. Maybe another body.

Maybe we cease to exist. How can you be free without existing?

Freedom. I do not believe in freedom.

If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to get these girls out of here.

And it very well might be the last thing I do.

I’ve seen girl ls try to escape before. They never made it past the first fence. Could have something to do with the armed guards, or the pack of highly trained guard dogs.

“You’re all going to have to follow my lead, and do what I say.” I look around at the three terrified young girls sitting on the floor in front of me. Their clothes are dirty,l and ripped from travel. Most come to me from across the boarder, having spent hours crammed into a cargo box.

The three girls nod in unison.

“Good. This won’t be easy. If we manage to sneak past the guards, we’ll have to travel on foot until we reach the nearest city.” I get out of my chair and make my way to the door.

I motion to the girls to follow, and one by one they line up behind me.

“Keep your heads down and look at the floor.”

I take a deep breath and open the door. I see the flashing blue lights of the cargo truck arriving. That means a new shipment of girls has arrived. The Warden will be busy surveying his new stock.

I strut confidently out the door with the girls walking close behind me. It’s dead quiet in the hall save for the soft clicking of the clock.

The exit is just around the corner. Then the hard part begins.

To be continued….

When well we ever be free I take a seat and stare at all they effort I’ve put into this paper sheet

We fleet home so we can take a seat an eat than sleep to repeat

To awake an see I’ve already lived through this day

We’re exhausted we work hard till the fifth day

Dear Diary,

What is it like to be free To do what you want To not be trapped Can you answer me My only friend You’ve been with me For all these years So I guess you to Would want to know

Why are we trapped Kept locked away I clean the house And do my chores Then I return once more To sit with you in this room While the other kids play I see them there in the window Yet I know not there names

What is a name I call you Diary What of me I have so many Brat and Nuisance A Useless Problem Why is it I have more then one Am I the only one Or am I special Perhaps I am

Am I special Is that why I’m here Why I’m not with the other kids What makes me different I didn’t want to be I want to run I want to meet them But most of all I want to be free

Sincerely, Your friend

What does it mean to be truly free, to let loose of the chains and shackles. I don’t know, nor the scientists, philosophers, or even historians. Freedom, in my mind, is being allowed total outwardness with little judgement. Freedom, which we all seek, waiting just around the corner, ever-winning the eternal game of hide-and-seek. Freedom is true democracy, freedom is no judgement, freedom is bound in our civil rights.

Rights of the people, so tight wound and liberating, always fails to be truly efficacious. Taken, by leaders alike. Never allowing us to strike the light - worried, yes they are, for they know that we have the might. Destruction, carnage, and freedom we shall bring. Freedom, such a wonderful, and interesting thing.

The sky isn’t a freedom. It is a liberty in which we take advantage of. The sky is a freedom. If freedom was meant to be a closed door. No mammal hasn’t once looked at the sky and uttered, “Why?”

The sky isn’t a freedom. It is a reminder of the vast that surrounds us. A reminder of the nothingness we are to the divine. Why must it be we who were meant to be when we can’t even celebrate life?

The sky isn’t a freedom. It’s the afterlife. The place all hates. I hate. And I hate that I hate. Why is everyone so filled with hate? Enough hate to weite poems and later hate those poems. Enough hate.

I hate that the sky isn’t a freedom. Why can’t it be a freedom?

Hark, the light It will bring its body in plight Take the forgings of misery, Of guilt, And of madness with its flight Coos in her ears, ‘With the love of years, Wed but still full of fears, What he, the tyrant hears, Silent to you, Hidden with the corrupted’ So that she, the demons lady Will be driven like a restless maiden She talks, Talks when dark it is outside And to no post, she is tied None but Macbeth, Who so shamefully revels in death.

Somewhat a mantra, somewhat a prayer, A string of helpless consolation, Then be cursed to damnation, Perhaps for a woman such as she, The arms of hades are naught but invitation Perhaps a light she should see, Beloved and abhorred banshee, Sewn with the dagger twisted in her gut, A light in the deepest pit of hell.

Freedom to the sworn king, all hail Malcolm! Freedom to Scotland, freedom to the people, And lest we forget- freedom to Lady Macbeth, Rotted beyond her beauty, Sounded ‘come, my love, it is time’ To which read out loud as a chime, Nature born child of Satan And a slave to asmodeous’ chains, She comes forth to the burning gate In more relief than ever to appreciate That now, Though standing at the complete mercy of The devilish arms, Kneeling with her thane of glamis, Knows eternal fire to repel the night.

What does it mean? To be unshackled, to breathe freely without the crushing of heavy chains wound tightly around one’s shoulders and chest?

When I speak of my affliction, you look away lest you be perceived as someone who communes with liars.

Commune. Communion. That concept is foreign to me. My interactions are limited to the few spirits who understand that my affliction isn’t something that can be seen.

Free. Freedom. You breathe it in, indulge in your greedy gulps without ever knowing the pain of its loss, of its absence.

Shackled. Manacled. I am bound, tethered to something that im told is a part of me, but I feel no familiarity with. It sinks its claws into everything I hope and dream for, tearing and cutting until only shards are left and I’ve learned not to let my imagination fool me.

I will never know true freedom. My mind won’t let me.