Nobody believed me when I said I was on a vacation. (Read caption) The other day, freedom talked to me over the phone call I made on behalf of the dying poetry. Poetry speaks to all whether it be, a tragedy or a criticism. She was the one tangible perspective, everyone loves to meet but this was a crucial time that even time failed to become a poem. The internet was airplanned since the President was out of the country. So, a peaceful protest started with the unarmed bullets. Organically, the news reported: a plane crashed and metaphors died a brutal death. On a spur, I rushed back to the TV and changed all channels but not a single report claiming any deaths. Suddenly, a thud! the screen fell into pieces. The words under house arrest now came on roads for protest in the name of dying poetry. Starting a war zone, from stone pelting to calling for freedom. I hurried to the window and shouted aloud, Freedom is on his way He is coming back. But nobody believed me when I said I was on a vacation. I am on my way I need a moment before I go. I have never been so wide awake
