Freedom really isn’t that free
‘Hush little baby don’t say a word
Daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird
And if that mocking bird don’t sing
Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring’
Echoing in the depths of her angst-ridden mind
These words just append additional vehemence
As she remembers her dreadful time as a child
Growing up enclosed with mortal demons
Ensnared in a body that failed to feel like her own
The home, where she had grown, was a war-filled zone
Over-protected and profoundly scarred by domestic violence
In the dead of night, her mother’s screams would pierce the silence
Nothing could be said or done, her father cosseted her
Refusing to accept that she had been cursed, her life was a blur
She couldn’t confide in her relations, for they where pugnacious
A feeling of antagonism, fuel-filled every hurried pace
As she raced, with haste, to locate a place, she could consider safe
A overwhelming sensation of trepidation fills her brain
She breaks down in the rain, and curses her cerebral pain
Lying in a corner, rolled in a ball, attempting to sleep
She sought to be free, and now she sleeps on the street
But still her heart is jam-packed with optimism and delight
Feeling that she will be alright if she can make it throughout the night
Midnight comes as the streets are emptied, all is tranquil
A vacant stomach causes pain, and leaves her shackled
The noises of the night have her writhing with anxiety
Silently, she creeps along the bare streets, in fear
And realises that her options are unexpectedly clear
She can stay in this slum, with the vermin and litter
To rot forever, in empty alleys and deserted streets
But with formidable vigour, the irrevocable revelation hit her
She could not leap, the hurdles that she would meet
With a sigh she decided that there was one place to go
The only place that would keep her vivacious and able-bodied
Nothing could deduct the verity that she had to go home
And lie to her parent’s when she declares that she’s sorry
At noon the next day, she arrives at the detested residence
In a very irreverent manner, her father, forever the pessimist
Thinks that his daughter has caught a critical illness
So like a over boiled and threatingly warm skillet
He father handles her with utter sensitivity and anxiety
Sets her down upon the couch and whispers quietly
‘what have you learnt from your time on the streets?’
Then glances at his fatigued daughter expectedly
She says with absolute truth and unreserved honesty
‘I’ve learnt that freedom really isn’t that free’
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