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Below is the poem entitled Freedom which was written by poet Spenser Jones. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Like apples falling from trees, people like 
us aren’t supposed to travel very far. Born 
into penitentieries. The last brick laid 
generations ago. Solitary confinement. 
Four Walls, uncomfortable bed, and a 
mind that wont stop. Trading our souls for 
wax paper. Folds of momentary silence 
that we inject with old needles. Tired 
plungers push quiet through our weak 
veins. Track marks like road maps help us 
find our way back when we go to far, but 
some of us don’t make it back. 
Road blocks along the way. No detour in 
All alone. 
Just one more time. 
Last Breath. 
Some of us die buried in early graves. The 
dirt to young to hold our bodies up. Tears 
fall like a great flood, because no ark 
could save us. Tired families left with 
questions, still tracing the tracks we left 
behind for answers, but some runaway 
trains never come back and that’s just the 
reality of this disease. There is a way out 
though. Like apples, plucked from a tree, 
packed in a box, and shipped far away, we 
can escape. We can go to meetings, plan, 
make real friends, and get someone to 
sponsor our prison bream. 
Like living through our own death HURTS, 
but we survive. 
When lost souls come together for 
something greater then themselves, they 
are no longer lost. We are no longer lost! 
Every dirt path we walked through 
barefoot made us a little bit stronger. 
Hands and knees scarred from crawling. 
Tear ducts empty. Dry tears screaming, 
desperate for the next fix. Aware that our 
souls are breaking, falling to pieces on the 
ground like rotten apples left on the tree to 
long and not willing to do anything about 
it. These are the feelings that make us 
who we are. Today we share these 
feelings. Crack our chest plates open and 
bare our souls. We get honest for the first 
time in our lives, and finally
We feel part of something.

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