Convicted by society before I was conceived, The struggle began before I could breathe, Bound by norms and ancient customs, Imprisoned from birth, doomed underneath. They stitched silence into my tongue, And called obedience a virtue, But rebellion brewed in my lungs, A quiet storm they never knew. I was never taught the truth, Fed with lies and imposed beliefs, Stripping me of any ammunition, Confiscating unforged weapons. I walk with ghosts of forgotten dreams, Buried beneath ancestral screams, Yet still I rise, cracked but whole, A rebel soul they couldn’t control. If being in prison means to be convicted, Then we are all convicts to society. Bound by invisible bars of tradition, Sentenced without trial, stripped of clarity. But even in chains, some learn to dance, To dream beyond the cell’s expanse. And though the walls may never fall, Our voices rise — defiant, raw, and tall. Signed: Nyore