As the melodies of my pen against paper skitter through my ears,

I can't help but wonder if this is right.

What about my dreams?

What about the future I had for me?

I guess this is what it feels like to be free. 

This kind of freedom is the most caged I've ever felt. 

I've become feral.

And who could blame those beasts for biting the hand that feeds

When it's the same hand that locks them away from everything

How did I get so cynical?

I guess that's what this world thinks is comical.

Except this is real. 

This is real. 

I am real. 

And so are my dreams. 

And so I will be free. 

I refuse to be nothing.

And so I will be everything.