Freedom

What does it feel like to be free?
A status deemed high and mighty,
Above the state of peace and serenity,
What does it feel like to be actually free?
To not be bound by rules and regulations,
Customs, old taboos and religion,
To be scrutinized and viewed as the opposition,
For choosing our own options,
Damned by old beliefs and superstition,
Is this what you called civil?
Hate thrown from one to another,
Disguised under categorization of specification,
To live under a country of one banner that bans and hate the others,
To be spewed with hate and subtle racism,
Stereotypical thinking not to race, but to a belief,
No matter how much freedom one is given,
There are lines, still, one had to follow,
A set of thoughts you had to reconsider just because it not the norm,
Ancient words we heed and we listen without compromise,
We became the army of subconscious hate and judgement,
To turn a blind eye on the truth for the sake of lies,
If such thing is freedom, then I’d rather not have any,
If my thoughts are scrutinized by the public,
What freedom do I have to practice?
If for the status of it, you have to deny your own belief, your own thoughts, and most importantly, your own dignity.

Poetry

What is poetry but emotions put to words,
An organized mess of emotions,
Blood written on paper,
Requires no convoluted plots nor counter plots,
There’s no need for intricate sentence,
Simply the purest, unadulterated thoughts,
Scribble down your demons,
Describe your hell,
In each labyrinth of person, is a story to tell.
Behind a smile conveys an unimaginable feeling,
Distraught emotion over the pain they’re dealing,
It’s a story that needs no introduction,
No ending nor solution,
Give it a hear, pay attention,
A simple question could change everything,

“Are you okay?”