the trouble with freedom

August 14, 2009
And so there I sat, spat and stared
Sat right under the shadow, the shadow of an image I forfeited
Spat outta my mouth bitter litres; the bitterness of shame
Stared at the dream ; yes, the dream I gave up
But I just sat; sat, spat and stared.
But I just sat; sat, spat and stared
For I knew not why you were there
There where I once was; a place I once ruled
A place in which they mint; mint such greatness
And I stared at how ugly I looked; ugly outside the centre
I stared at how ugly I now looked
But unto me you stared back and spat
Spat not bitterness but scorn; the scorn of failure
The failure of a heroine; a heroine famous for failing
And thus I swore; to cry freedom I swore
To cry freedom I swore; to be that which I always was
And freedom you granted but I still sat, spat and stared
Sat on my big bum that only knew swinging and farting
Spat out the aftertaste of gossiping and backbiting
Stared at you as you said, “Buddy, that’s the trouble with freedom;
you knoweth nay what to do with it”

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