There's a fly in my oatmeal, and now I won't eat it.
There's a fly in my oatmeal, get it out please! I pleaded.
It's just a raisin, my father said.
Well now it's all cold, and you'll have to reheat it.

You are free to speak, but not be mean;
You are free to have seen things, but they can't be unseen.

You are free to read this, yet trapped in your thoughts;
You are free to earn money, but love can't be bought.

You are free to be burning, but not burn to death;
You are free to live life, but stay on the path.

So the question that often comes to me,
Is are you really all that free?

This poem is neither here nor there,
in fact, it is not anywhere.

But if you look then you will find,
that it is now inside your mind.