Die trying*

I could live a slave,
but what kind of life is that?
Tied and chained. Restricted.
No voice to be heard,
long ago beaten out.
I could live on my knees,
crawling and begging,
but where’s the point in that,
if I can die standing,
happy and joyful, being me.
Not restricted, being me.
I’ll rather die on my feet,
making a stand,
I’ll rather die trying, than live crying.