Maybe you do not understand that the past is in the past, yet I am still chained to it.
Maybe you do not understand that every time someone mentions that theme I cringe.
Maybe you do not understand that that past I am talking about has not been created by me.
Can it be possible that you cannot step into my shoes and see through my soul, and look through my eye sockets to see my past to which I seek freedom from?
Maybe you do not understand that the past is crossed several times a day in a cruel jokes, to which I have no choice but to let roll of my shoulder.
Maybe you do not understand that type of freedom because you have never been locked down the way I am talking about.
Maybe you do not understand my freedom because you have never been owned by the very things you wish with every fiber in your body to be away from.
Maybe you do not understand because at the end of the day while you are sleeping peacefully, I am lying wide awake thinking how I can gain my freedom from a past that is not really my past; but a path that I stream from, a path I drink from, a path they wished they could get away from.