Freedom Bares Its Teeth

Freedom isn’t a delicate flower; It’s the fist that goes through the ground, the teeth that grind at the chains, the howl of a wind that won’t ask for permission. I refuse to bow to the crumbs of tomorrow, I won’t let my bones sink into decay, a shell waiting to grow scraps. I’ll carve out freedom from this stubborn rock— bloody-knuckled and relentless. Do not tell me that patience is a virtue. Patience is the poison they peddle to keep you under control. Freedom roars. Freedom bares its teeth. Silence will never hold my name.