Real Freedom

This probably doesn't make sense to anyone what so ever, unless you've read the book I am writing for Creative Writing.

Real Freedom


I unravel my fingers

But I can't feel anymore

I can't feel of touch

Because of this I am at war


Fingers are cut

Wincing from pain

The glass broke apart

My skin is of red stain


What habit has this become?

To alter the enemy

To betray my side

Just to hold a legacy


Colors travel through the scope

Abstract raises its spectrum

Revealing what I’d never seen

And creates our real freedom

The End

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