Freedom, the idea, is nothing but bait for the working class. Hanging pound notes, unattainable, while our dreams lay shattered into the ground like broken glass. There’s a shortage of plasters to cover our cuts and bruises, so we have no choice but to wear them as war scars.
Enraged by the sounds of sirens, though they say they mean no harm, they bring riot shields and barricades, blocking my expression, blocking my resolve, blocking the answers I will get. I’m tired; my patience grows thinner than spider's silk as I stand stuck in the webs of injustice, but I embody resilience, I ban fatigue; it will not infiltrate my being.
The chants of the hungry amplify, morphed into a sound of defiance. Clenched fists resemble swords, sharpened with limestone, so I fight. Tears cling to my cheek like leeches, still I fight. Words like arrows penetrate through my armor, still I fight.
My feet stay anchored through the calamity, revealing the durability of my might.
Written and performed by me.