Please, no. Don’t blame me. It is not I.

I loudly becry “I am the product of a broken generation.”

Formed by the gentle hands of the necrocrats,

Whispering into my ear “Learn my tenets. Obey my commands. Conform to my standards.”

The sheeple follow the shepherds every word,

Yet I tell you, “I AM FREEDOM, HEAR ME ROAR.”

Then I drift away into the unknown as countless people’s try to crack my case,

Open my sarcophagus, examine me as I am the rejection

Of every single one of their beliefs.

Yet it is not me to blame,

I am simply the product of my surrounding,

The innocent rose formed out of the ashes of free thought.