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I feel so trapped, but I have always been free.

Yet I long for the feeling of true freedom.

It weighs heavy on the wings of my back, the wings I never possess.

freedom feels so close;

I get licks of it when I run fast in fields,

and when I feel the wind breathing, it's cold air on my skin.

Yet I will never feel the sensation of being free.

Truly, free.

Not the faux freedom I have;

I'm free to walk the earth, eat my food, and speak my mind.

Yet I'm not free to leap into the skies, cannot taste the delicate sweetness of the stars, cannot sing into the sun, and watch it dance with my heart.

I want to be free; the more I say it, the more it hurts.

True freedom is only welcomed by death,

and as much as freedom calls to me, I pray I don't meet its partner any time soon.

So, for now, I will let the strings of faux freedom dig into my back,

I will let this feeling of eleutheromania tug at the yarn like a puppet master.

And I will never feel truly free

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