Yang junubi

They call it freedom,
but tell me — what exactly are we free from?
Born with a number, taxed from the cradle,
taught to trade dreams for debt just to keep food on the table.

They wave flags, chant “Land of the Free,”
but freedom ain’t free when the price is your sanity.
When every sunrise comes with a bill,
and every breath feels taxed, tell me, what’s freedom still?

Independence?
Sounds sweet, rolls off the tongue real nice.
But how independent are we
when refusal needs permission,
when our bodies ain’t ours unless the system grants exemption?
Injected or rejected — either way, it’s their decision.

They poison the water, the air, the soil,
then sell us salvation in bottles wrapped in foil.
Big Pharma cashes checks on our sickness and pain,
while natural healing is laughed off as quaint, insane.

Bills, taxes, interest rates — invisible chains,
modern-day shackles engraved with our names.
Pay to live, pay to die, pay to breathe, pay to try.
And when you question it?
They gaslight you, call you crazy, call you a danger to society.

How are we free
when critical thought is sedition,
when questioning the narrative is treated like a crime,
when real education is buried under debt and distraction?

They keep us divided, keep us sedated,
force-fed fear till we’re too damn jaded.
Dependence is profit, trauma is business,
and our suffering keeps their stocks high, their pockets endless.

Freedom ain’t something we live — it’s something we’re sold.
A catchy slogan, a verse in a song, a story retold.
But real freedom?
That’s a fire they want us too tired to spark,
too scared to fan, too lost to see in the dark.

We’re not free — not yet.
We’re consumers, numbers, collateral on a ledger.
And until we wake up, stand up, speak up,
until we refuse to confuse slavery with safety,
obedience with liberty,
then “land of the free” will stay nothing but a beautiful, deadly fantasy. I am no one's slave. My mind, body, and soul are free from the chains that bind us. I want more than