Freedom isn't all flowers
And it isn't day dreams for hours
It isn't always your favourite taste
Redemption isn't always the case

In fact, freedom likes to give us choices
It's the reason we can use our voices
Try on words of all kinds
Thoughts on repeat change our minds

Freedom has a lesson to teach
That we all will learn eventually
A wretched vice of love internally
Permitting our suffering certainly

Freedom isn't all flowers
And it isn't high skies and towers
It's a power of will so specially
Designed for us to guide our destiny

In truth, freedom is like the spirit
Neutral to life but ever coherent
Providing us the great option
Of sleeping, or becoming conscious

Freedom has a message to send:
Forever within you can transcend
Trust the person you are within
For our lives are never stone written.

-miss_mica(<3)

The first boy after you told me that pain wasn't real,
Just a figment of our imagination,
So I cut deeper,
I stretched bigger,
I ****** harder,
and when the doctor asked me to rate my pain on a scale of 1-10
I always answered 0,
but when my mom asked about you,
When we happened to cross paths in the hallways,
It was a ten,
It was always a **** ten,
every single ******* time

Reality of the situation
is like mirrors
of the same spectacles.
The only way to connect
is accept the images you see.
You want different images?
Make the changes
within yourself.
Your amends is apparent!
Does a different mirror
mean anything?
Or could it be the
thoughts of what you see?
Sometimes with a *****
mirror,you may only see
the specs on your face-
specs that do not belong there.
These are the realities
You NEED to clean.
And then you see streaks-
Not every cleanse
is perfect-
but not every
perfect is imperfect.
Keep trying, because
what stares back at
You is your image-
a promise of atonement.

Somebody's standing in the window
and they're quietly watching me.
There's not a sign of any movement
but somebody is trying to see.

It's late at night and there's nothing
but darkness all around.
I can feel the presence of a stalker
and he's not making a sound.

Inside of my head he has a tight grip
and he holding me around my waist.
He's about to do something to make
another neighborhood case.

I tried to scream, fight and scratch but
I couldn't quite prevail.
He sent out an unwanted feeling of me
sinking down to the bottom of a well.

He's gotten the best of me and now it's  
much, much too late.
Mother told me to stay away from this
place because there was too much at stake.

The stalker's standing in front of me now
and there's nothing that I can do.
All of the things mother tried to tell me
they're all about to come true.

What if our thoughts were controlled
and original thought was all but done
if it were illegal to ask questions
for example this one

what if there was no future or past
and only the simultaneous
time was only another tool
like a meter stick or others, miscellaneous

or what if those with life
instead of just being
break away from the grid
giving their own life meaning

without fear of their ideas being chased
hunted down, gathered up and erased
built up in great heaping pyres
and ceremoniously fed to the fires
  
people could extend their ideas
through-out the ages
merely by putting their words
on a few blank pages

influencing people
generations apart
simply by creating
a little bit of art