"unfree" poems
at times we tend to think
our democracy is safely founded and secure
only eventually we recognize
the need to constantly defend its fundamental rights
work steadily against their stealthy abolition
watch carefully the words of politicians
lest they betray what they pretend to say
think twice for whom we cast our votes
avoid contenders who too often bray
that these were not their quotes
listen to those who have good arguments
do not unleash too easy sentiments
and in the end cast our votes when called
in short
democracy turns out to be hard work
in case we shirk this
we soon pay the price
unfree societies have known
dictatorship corruption vice
have often needed centuries
to remedy injuries done
to find their four freedoms
and to recognize
democracy remains a living promise
a brilliant idea with many faces
always a work in progress
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC
A walk in Africa,
Africa for Africans,
A walk down town Africa,
Meeting an African,
A troubled and unsettled African,
A troubled African in Africa,
Africa in Africa,
An African Diaspora,
An African imprisoned,
At home and away,
A pure African,
From the Africa of poor Maputo,
A pure African,
From the Africa of poor Zimbabwe,
Ghana, Nigeria, Tanzania,
Somalia, Ethiopia, Congo,
A poor African,
From the pure Africa of elsewhere,
An unfree African in a free Africa,
Africa for Africans,
Africans yesterday,
Africans today,
And Africans tomorrow,
The Africa of South Africa.
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
how come we struggle with equality,
when everyones looking for lifes perfect quality?
society cuts down gays down and reprimands,
forced into silence by a government that doesn't understand.
why cant they can't marry?
i mean come on, is gay marriage really that scary?
people should be who they want to be,
not be hiding in a closet unfree.
it's not polite to point and stare,
seriously, why do people care?
they're the same as you and me,
their ****** orientation is just different to some degree.
society needs to take a good look inside,
we need to support LGBT pride.
because supposedly we are "free,"
but how come thats not how its been lately?
(a.f.)
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
She hid things,
and left you in the dark.
He forgot things,
and caused her to anger.
They fell apart,
and he went with another.
She stayed behind,
in her wonder.
They fell apart,
leaving me here struggling
between which side to choose.
I am like the sun which gives warmth:
they revolve around me
as I give them advice,
but I try my best
not to get drawn in.
It's hard for them,
but harder for me,
as I'm tossed around
like a ping-pong unfree.
I don't want to be in the middle,
I just want to be free.
It's not my fault,
so why me?
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
In Autumn,
as in Spring,
the sap flows,
the sap wishes to race
against heartbeats
before the winter,
before the winter
buries us
in her usual shroud of ice.
I turn to you
knowing that
unrequited love
is good
for poetry,
knowing that pain
will nudge the muse
as well as anything,
knowing that you
are afraid, fettered
to a life
you do not love,
& so unfree
that freedom seems
more fearful even
than the familiar
business
of being
a grumbling slave.
I lived
that way
once,
& I know
that freedom
is its own reward,
that it propagates
itself
by means
of runners,
that nobody
gives it to you,
not even me
to you,
but that you
must seize it
with your own
two quaking hands
& pluck
the strawberry
it bears
in the green
ungrumbling
Spring.
2.8k
What is it to be free in an unfree world?
Madness, as the only escape, is what I have chosen.
Madness in the sense of unrest,
Disavowal of the properties proscribing my actions
I smoke and drink to put off life
to ensnare nothingness with breath
and feel contingency take its hold on me
I want wine, furies and song to be my epitaph
and grasp at meaninglessness with two sweaty palms
I am not comfortable and never shall be
with this notion of decidedness and squalor of the mind
yet it is I
I know little of the great works and can hardly hold a pencil
This is where I meet myself, a worker, unfit for labor
exposed to existentialism and sick
I shudder, alone forever
Good things given to and wasted on me
I am death encapsulated
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
I never noticed before
Just how much I like control.
Structure, routine.
These things keep me grounded.
I was always made to go with the flow;
The rules, never my own.
When I flip the pages and read my thoughts
I notice I never liked being torn away from focus.
I loved to sit and work on my passions,
Never cringing at myself for being interested.
I think I learned to dislike my interests
Because others didn't and that was cringe to them.
I was made to follow but told to be a leader,
I'll never know which is better or why.
I don't understand the logic or matter,
Can't everyone decide what's important?
For my parents it was tradition,
What was taught to them
and likely the people before,
The question is where does blame lie?
I would be ripped away from creativity,
To be forced to finish my plate and more,
Promised desserts I never received,
To instead dissociate and remain unfree.
I think this was so damaging to me.
My mom took me back through her thoughts,
Shared stories of how troublesome I was,
She said I always had issues
with being torn away from my tasks.
Tells me it wasn't serious,
But she and others beat my ***
I have to wonder how I felt then.
I was only three and hurt so often.
I decided to skip the yelling eventually,
I'd go to the corner for thinking differently.
Until I would turn and say okay to my mom,
Who'd laugh at me for being upset.
It's interesting how she doesn't see it.
I have always had a hard time with transitions,
Child, teenager, adult, it's been hard.
And I am going to learn why.
Oct 20, 2023
Oct 20, 2023 at 12:40 PM UTC
Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.
I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.
I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.
I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.
I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his
Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine
And walk miles and miles of fire.
I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.
The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving
A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:47 PM UTC
trap
contained
enclosed
unfree
looking for the door
the lever to push
the ropes to pull
open sesame
we are still here
until we choose to think our way out of the box
out of this box
here we will remain
in this
trap
trapped
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 8:36 AM UTC
Immortal.
Oh, yes, he is immortal.
Immortal in his youthfulness indeed!
He shalt age and grow but never change;
he shalt wane and wither just in pain!
Just like a stubborn day rainfall-
ah! which remains a thick stifling veil
to our young sky, and its starlights-
like a loyal fence and its old window;
sitting and hoping that endings shalt never show
Yes, he shalt but still look the same tomorrow.
Ah! His eyes but a way down to my soul;
which I find lone but beguiling!
Pangs of endurance and blighting pain-
all vanish soon as I catch the sight of 'im again!
Oh! And with an indolent smile so comely;
he shalt answer up all my queries vividly!
Brilliance and height but with his tones;
but of a wit firm as an obedient stone-
he washes me of all my doubts,
fears, and worries of my small thoughts.
Amidst the decaying weary roses,
and those pallid old-time posters
he is but my friend, so jolly and bright like me.
He shalt stand there with shy feelings
next to the bustling stairs in the mornings.
And out doth I venture on errands-
so late that I need nearly run!
Greeting me there he smiles again-
and all day shalt his picture remain!
O, how I adore his cherry-like lips-
full of secrets, brave rays, and twists!
He is my immortal sun and star-
the flow that fills, and rises my heart.
He is my undying day and night-
to my thunder, he's brown starlight!
Ah! He is corrupting me again with love-
but in his eyes doth I find clarity!
Clarity, my dear, a bright tenderness and promise
that no other lover can surmise.
Oh, my whole sweetness-canst thou hear me
scream and pray for thee?
Ah, how that bunch of wordless gazes
brimming with startling eyelashes-
when thou peered into my moonless sun;
thrilled through me and proved us one.
And ah! My young sailor, be but my dawn to me-
when nights are lies and dusks are unfree.
Shield me on gray mountaintops-
hold my hand as I stroll amongst the shops.
Heap on me some flowers!
How betwixt those icy morning showers-
shalt thou retreat to my bower.
With a ring of blissful laughter-
and the joy of a new prudent lover;
shalt we entwine just together
and celebrate our glad encounter!
Meanwhile with conscience thy entreat-
that the vow of union I repeat-
and bringst thy heart which hast made me blind-
and knit thy pure love into mine.
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
We could not run, we could not hide
We could not leave the great divide
We could not see to scream, to speak
We could not hear to cry, to weep
We were not here, we were not there
We were not us, we were the air
We flowed with life, we flowed and flowed
Like great dwarfs bright, we were so cold
Amidst the likeness that we showed
We found ourselves unfree and old.
Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 7:02 PM UTC
Love is like my morning coffee,
dark and deep, yet warm and cozy.
Steam that rises, a soft embrace,
a touch that lingers, in time and place.
First, the scent: rich, inviting,
like caring words with hearts igniting.
A gentle sip, a quiet thrill,
the kind that lingers, slow and still.
Too fast, too hot, it burns the tongue,
like passion’s fire when love is young.
Too cold, too late, and it will fade,
a bitter taste, a love mislaid.
And when it’s gone, the weight is real,
a sluggish step, a lifeless feel.
The world moves on, but not with me,
An exhausted soul, tired, unfree.
But coffee made with care, with grace,
it fills the soul, it sets the pace.
A steady hand, a patient art,
love, like coffee, warms the heart.
Mar 6, 2025
Mar 6, 2025 at 7:36 PM UTC
It was only a kiss
They say
Only?
A kiss?
It was only a kiss
They repeat
Ha!
A kiss!
Yes, it was a kiss
that embodies
ourselves
that we can
that it is possible
to love
even in your same
body type
to love
whoever you want
to love
It is a kiss
That represents us
It is a kiss
That is us
Still unfree
When will we see?
We waited for a long **** time
Just for a 7 seconds time
It was only a kiss
They say
Only?
A kiss?
Let me sing to you
A song The Killers wrote for you
"It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this"
No, it's not only a kiss.
Nov 16, 2015
Nov 16, 2015 at 8:31 AM UTC
settle in the rose—
a hideaway.
my shoulders turn
the air.
my scapula-
smooth moments—
dead.
living.
intrazombie.
it’s my smoke which
wicks your
love—the foolish
gray, unfree and
blind. I believe
I am half—troubles
far. fingers
burning ginger
freckles through
the white page.
somehow
the rock and flint
set you afire.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 1:45 PM UTC
Sauntering along A. Avenue,
Two groups of people I see:
Clowns, frolicking with their masks
And dead souls float unfree,--
Soaking in my mirror’s depth,
In Charon’s boat, I sat
Seeking answers, these coins to spare --
To which group will I be at?
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
The more I choose, the more I open doors to blame.
The more I want, the more I’m questioned.
The more I do, the more I bear.
Once, I lived unfree,
yet longed for freedom.
But does true freedom exist?
Perhaps one day I’ll be free,
free of responsibility,
free of judgment,
free of mistakes.
Only then could I say:
whatever price I paid for freedom
was nothing but a bargain.
Only then could I be myself,
without consequence.
Only then could I rest,
released from doubt,
released from bad thoughts,
released from the endless choosing.
Sep 4, 2025
Sep 4, 2025 at 2:22 PM UTC
Globally dense, our ailing nation
makes one weep for sheer frustration
thoughts and dreams grow numb.
Tech-addled students scroll on phones,
‘midst scent of android pheromones,
wafting digital dumb.
Pop-culture, narcissist unkind
dispenses with the human mind
which, failing further, falls behind
the grimly global curve.
We read, in writing on the wall
arithmetic’s impending fall
while numbers loiter in the hall
to get what they deserve.
ENQUIRY, tagged as D.O.A,
a sheeted stiff, is wheeled away
her mourners left to grieve.
entitled maiden, full of sass,
LIBERTY begs a bathroom pass
her bladder to relieve.
When zit-faced rebels run the show
the dismal ratings plummet low;
a vulgarized cartoon.
Descending to unfathomed levels,
Ignorance applauds her devils
calling out their tune.
PATRIOTISM, tarred and feathered
headless, claws its cage untethered
foul, unloved, unfree:
Another casualty of time
which fell for want of noble rhyme;
to water FREEDOM’s tree.
CURIOSITY, half asleep,
now stirs and murmurs from the deep
uninterested, untaught.
She grows yet duller in her ways
returning to her ocean daze,
(her schools of fish uncaught).
HISTORY, dormant, lies in dust
a narrative no man can trust
a book no scholar reads.
Events unstudied as designed
wherein the heart of humankind
for want of context, bleeds.
DEMOCRACY degenerates
until God wills and activates
a nation’s drive to learn.
Curricula will be made void;
disheartened teachers unemployed,
their wisdom fit to burn.
You think the past was less obtuse?
Less prone to youthful thought-abuse?
Perhaps… back in the day.
And though it may have been the same.
this poet opts to place the blame
on digital delay.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 6:55 AM UTC
.
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.
The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.
Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.
His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.
Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.
Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.
After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
You are not the first,
I loved,
Or even maybe
The last,
(I lie, you're the one)
I want your heart,
To capture,
Your soul, such
Sweet rapture,
(I swear, you can trust in me)
I wait in the spaces,
Distances between,
Land & sea, left
Caged unfree,
(I promise, you set me free)
Maybe we once met,
Birthday parties,
Smiling & laughing, kids
Skating parks,
(Remember how you saved me)
You sent me a smile,
Guiding me,
Holding my hand, you
Lifted me,
(Did I even thank you)
Always admiring your,
Relentless determination,
A mere stranger, who
You loved,
(I love you more)
I know this is past,
Imagined insane,
Know you now, my
Clambering mind,
(Are you just a dream)
I fell in love with you,
First sight,
No turning back, a
Massive attack,
(Did we meet at another time)
To find you back in,
My sight,
That first night, a
Drawing mind,
(Dreamscape, dreamscape, dreamscape)
You are all that I,
Dream of,
Every single night, when
You're quiet,
(Let it be, let it be, let it be)
You are all that matters to me,
as honest as the words I type,
sing,
or write.
I don't ever want to see,
you out of sight.
You seem so familiar,
a stranger set alight,
I see from afar,
someone known in flight.
© Sia Jane
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
I'm confuse
angry and sad.
What will i choose?
The wrong thing,
where i am happy
or the right one,
where I'm unfree.
It's confusing...
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 6:17 AM UTC
I think I'm faking it
Faking orgasums
Faking feelings
Faking being a good person
Why do I feel so fake?
I feel so confusing
I confuse even myself
Especially when I confess my fate to my heart
My heart still hopes, and I'm trying
Oh, so trying so hard to break it and grind it into dust
I feel fake
Everytime I don't say what I really think
I know how my words would crush hearts on the verge of tears
And I care enough not to let good hearts cry because of me
I still feel fake, I feel trapped, unfree
17 years a slave to society and counting
I wish I could run away, disappear
But like a slave, I'm still bound in chains
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
A piece of Africa in Asia.
Thirst, hunger and hysteria.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Expanse of unexplored sea.
Here each child is born unfree.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'
Walls of steel and concrete.
Freedom confined to streets.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
They're born and will die here.
Must live in shadows of fear.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Bulldozed houses in ruins.
Within them the playful urchins.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Fire rains from time to time.
Asking for freedom is crime.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Stop screaming, O mother!
Here lay dead your brother.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Like ****** Jailers are strong.
Much above right and wrong.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Hitler's foes walk in his steps.
Each day cruelty oversteps.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Inside calvary and martyrdom.
Outside cowardice is dumb.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
On world map I am just a dot.
But still era's big black spot.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
I am Gaza, 'Mother of all Prisons'.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
Our souvenirs.
In a little box I've stowed—
a secluded veneer.
A lot of times you bestowed
The prettiest things.
A deck of just kings,
Lilac seeds.
An anklet
not a ring
with rolled paper
as beads.
A painted sycamore tree
and a carved partridge.
A butterfly, unfree
and a rusty London bridge.
Many more, I have burnt
A simple jewelry box,
a medical syringe.
A vintage, whimsical clock,
ripped pages, a stockage.
But this last one, I gave away
It wasn't mine for a keepsake.
The most special,
an epilogue; crucial—
the last smiling
photograph of us.
the last reeling
scene of us.
It was candid
it was real.
But look at what you've done.
Look at how all these objects—
merely flashes and ashes—
are perpetually gone.
Look at how you never
talked about leaving
but did anyway.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
Blemished by the experience
Worn and fatigued
Murky and uncertain
Static, unfree
Scrubbing at the past
until it begins to clear
Soaking in the truth of things
Clarity is near
Stepping out and drying off,
toweling away all the debris
Fresh and fragrant now I stand.
Ready, a new Me.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
Open and free again
Open to love
Open to life
Open to be again
Can’t live the rest of life like a monster
Open and free again
Open all doors and breathe it all in
Still me, unfree of sin
But wide open to be, just free
Whatever lurks in corners of my mind
Whatever morbid thoughts linger on the other side
Right now I want free, even if later I freely enslave me
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 4:39 AM UTC