Freedom is an illusion.
Freedom, that word, freedom.
Could hold tons of words in just one vessel.
Depending on your decision.
Freedom could be the roots that ties our veins and connects us.
It could be the hearts in our palms we hold so dear, that binds us.
The freedom that I longed for, yesterday.
Turned into nightmare today.
The one egg of hope left in my nest is hatched, again.
The freedom I always sang for made me cry.
Turned me back to nowhere.
Freedom.
True freedom, I seek.
The freedom I rained a thousand sweat for,
Keeps drawing me, backwards.
Into the darkest night I watched bandits invade my family,
from our clay, moulded hut.
Burning down our houses and destroying our once happy family,
As if it meant nothing.
Freedom.
I still dream of that freedom.
Of the bright days.
We were attacked with jet,
Raining bombs and tears gases.
Like thunderous rain, striking out roofs,
Again and again.
Despite the fact we cried out our lungs and intestines.
Yet, no one listened to the voice of our cries.
Freedom.
What is freedom exactly?
When I bury the ones I love.
And my families were manslaughtered in front of me.
Yet,
I got kidnapped and caged into the den of society waste.
I can't help to think...
Who am I to Blame.
The corrupt leaders
Or the foolish masses that tend to dance in to the flute they play.
These in power with pot bellies like empty baskets that can never be filled to the top.
© Madinah_Writes
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Fragrance From A Black Flower
Poetry#1 in blackpoets This collection of poems is intended to give some account of the conditions in which African oral poets produce their works, and the audiences to which they address themselves. However, even the most summary account of this topic is...
