Everywhere we go in in life,                                

There seems to be a box.

 

A ‘political ‘box that must be ticked,

Before opportunity knocks.

 

Gone is all of our freedom,

Subservient in time –

 

Bled from society it is,

A melancholic paradigm.

 

Oppressed are we,

Where are our choices?

 

Fresh air seems to be polluted,

By constitutional voices!

 

So for us to be noticed,

We are bound to belong –

 

Ticked be the boxes,

Do you think this is wrong?

 

Severed are our wings.

Chained are our feet.

 

Rise to your rights.

Do not be beat.

 

© Dez Wilson 2016