The sounds of nature can be heard,
Among the rumbling of the cars driving by,
Trains, yells, fridges and birds,
And the sound of your own being,
Your thoughts, heart and form,
Existing outside of all of those things,
Into which you were born,
Like the structure of the agreement,
That the humans around you made,
Work for life and live to have,
Some time left after you're paid.
It seems so narrow,
The life you're allowed to live,
And still be lauded by society.
What happened to one's prerogative?
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