On Being Asked About Freedom
đź’ś freebyrd
I grew up
knowing the fundamental truth
that freedom is never free.
That there are responsibilities
to be met in order to be
the best version of myself.
Check boxes to be ticked.
Tests to be passed.
Degrees to be earned.
Jobs to be worked.
Babies to birth.
Children to raise.
Adults to launch—
mine and hundreds of others.
I learned early
how a life is measured:
by productivity,
by sacrifice,
by how well you carry weight
without letting it show.
There is no freedom in expectation.
No freedom in duty.
No freedom in the roles that must be played
to secure the mask
others read as a reflection of my worth.
So when you ask me
to name a moment
when I felt free,
it isn’t the simple question
you imagine.
There was no clearing.
No gate left unlocked.
No day without consequence.
If freedom exists,
it does not arrive for me as release.
It arrives as responsibility survived.
As endurance mistaken for choice.
As the quiet agreement
to keep going anyway.
There is no freedom
in being free.
There is only the moment
you stop pretending
it was ever a god-given right,
rather than a choice
I never valued myself enough
to make.
About the Creator
Stacey Mataxis Whitlow (SMW)
Welcome to my brain. My daydreams are filled with an unquenchable wanderlust, and an unrequited love affair with words haunts my sleepless nights. I do some of my best work here, my messiest work for sure. Want more? https://a.co/d/iBToOK8
Keep reading
More stories from Stacey Mataxis Whitlow (SMW) and writers in Poets and other communities.
What the Fire, the Body, and the Earth Remember:
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This poem centers on witness and endurance — the emotional steadiness of holding historical truth without spectacle or release. It feels calm but heavy. It is not trying to feel anything. It is trying to hold something relevant through another storm.
By Stacey Mataxis Whitlow (SMW)8 days ago in Poets
Inmate Six
The Toll of Inmate 6 I cocked the trigger, I dropped the hammer, Chasing a life I thought was glamor. But the flash of the barrel is a fleeting light, And life has changed in the dead of night. If only I refrained, if only I’d seen, The hollow end of this killing machine. I hear the distant inmates’ clamour, As guards approach in polished armour. Echoes ring through the concrete hall: "Do the crime, give up your time, give up it all." A gallows pole is now my toll, The weight of the iron upon my soul. The Spiritual Appeal Last rites are read, a spiritual appeal, But the silence of God is the only thing real. He whispered to me in a voice like thunder: "Shouldn't have dropped that hammer, or torn life asunder." My response was solemn as the end drew near, Though I told the walls I felt no fear. But the smell of death is thick and close, A heavy, haunting, final dose. Prayer now departed from my guardian’s hand, As I leave the world of the living man. The Reaper’s Receipt The reaper chimed in with a hollow grin: "No more games to play, let the fire begin. Hell is coming your way, Inmate 6, The clock has stopped its rhythmic ticks." The inmates shout through the bars and steel: "Should have cut a deal for an appeal!" But now it’s late, the walk is straight, With my own two hands, I sealed my fate. The rope was set, the air grew thin, The price was paid for the original sin. The gallows pole took a heavy bend, And Inmate 6 met his silent end.
By Vinn Black7 days ago in Poets
Off the Book
It ended like every other stupid idea. Badly, and alone. I’m researching digital confession ethics, he said. A tech ethicist. He gestured at floating data I couldn’t see then pulled out a physical notebook. Actual paper, fountain pen. He held it up like he was showing me scripture.
By Nicky Frankly5 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.