Who are you to call me out,
For living my life, that's what we're about.
Who is to say what is best for me?
Who is to determine who I should be?

Politicians, who will surely abuse me for gain,
Or family, who'd sacrifice happiness to stop pain.
Philosophers, who sit idly between their tomes,
Or writers, who think life is but a poem.

Artists, who see a canvas in all,
Or soldiers, minds overcast by a bloodlust pall.
Bards, who'd ruin me for a story to tell,
Or demons, who'd surely send me to hell.

The angels, so righteous, so callous, so bold,
To call me out on the life that I hold,
So close, so dear. So let me be me,
For with or without you, I live to be free.

Though I fear, in the end,
Though for my freedom I fend,
I am confused as the rest,
Who am I to say what is best?





Penned by my hand on the 4th of Aeguary, in the year 645 AF.