Everyone is born free.
We are born to feel the mountain breeze,
To feel the ocean's waves lapping at our knees
And to let the dark soil sink between our toes.
To feel the early morning sun crisp your skin,
Or to let gentle snowflakes kiss your face in a chilled pattern of grace.
To feel beads of sweat trickle down your body as drops from vibrant leaves join them.
What more could you want?

Yet despite this wonderful luxury,
We murder the clusters of trees that give us life
And shred the remains, slicing and stretching them into green strips labeled one, five, ten, twenty, fifty...
As if we need compensation for what little time we truly believe we have.
Yet, time is an illusion.
Created to measure life's worth and press deadlines into the soul, we believe we will never have enough.
This is most prominent in our youth, who can see underneath the pedestal their seniors place themselves upon.
They preach this truth and fight against oppression smashed into their heads and hearts.
Often does this conformity create fallen souls, too weakened by constant propaganda to continue.
What more could they want?

Much too often will you see the truth in the words "corporations exploit out insecurities for profit"
In the youth too fearful to express themselves, or in the nooses hung, the wrists slit, the poison swallowed or the guns shot.
Our peers and loved ones are shamed for having tinted skin or hair too short or long; for expressing our imperfect sexuality, or lack thereof.
We are prevented from bathing in out uniqueness by the idea that universal perfection must be achieved, yet perfection is merely a concept.
It cannot be unanimous.
What more do we need that we haven't already achieved?
This earth is not a right, as so many of us believe.
It is a privilege to exist among each other and among the billions of species, the breathtaking elegance of the natural world, and the endless possibility of happiness and tranquility...
There is more than enough room for love and affection to flood the earth, yet we fail to see that.
We allow our differences to block our view of the wonderful place this world could be, and let it guide our actions.
It is the ultimate sign of weakness.
Routine and resemblance are used as excuses to paint over hatred in fallacious righteousness.

There is no such thing as perfection.
There is no such thing as ugliness.
There is only room for love, and the attempt to force hatred will only destroy us.
Despite what many believe, we have everything we could ever desire.
We just have to have the courage to find it.
What more could there be?