DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE Poem: The Cost of Light, by Christopher Richards

They told me I was free—
as long as I stood still.
As long as I stayed small,
and silent,
and grateful.
“This is freedom,” they said,
with hands full of chains.

They dressed me in flags
that never fit.
Taught me to kneel before the altar
of capitol—
on calloused knees that burned.

I was handed a script
with no voice of my own.
Given silence
and told it was peace.
They taught me to sing hymns
to gods that never heard me,
to pledge to flags
that never sheltered me.

I was born beneath
a ceiling of no—
no room,
no voice,
no questions.

They said:
“This is the land of the free.”
But freedom that must be whispered
is not free.
Freedom with a leash
is still a chain.

And when I asked,
“Why must we bleed for bread?”
they said,
“Because that’s the cost of living.”

But it’s not.
It’s the cost of obedience.
It’s the price of silence.

It’s the toll we pay
for walking roads we did not choose,
under gods we do not serve,
toward futures that do not see us.

I have seen what passes for peace:
the smile that hides the bruise,
the prayer that hides the hunger,
the pledge that hides the cage.

But freedom is not hidden.
Freedom is not quiet.
Freedom does not wait to be invited in.

Freedom does not come
gift-wrapped in red, white, and blue.
It does not wait politely.
It does not knock.

It breaks.
It howls.
It comes with grief.
It costs.

It costs your comfort.
It may cost your kin.
It may cost your peace of mind,
your place in line,
your place at the table
you were never meant to sit at anyway.

But still—
you must rise.

Because there is power in the breaking.
There is mercy in the rising.
There is beauty in the blood
you shed for the future.

Not just yours—
but ours.

For the children not yet born.
For the mothers made small.
For the lovers buried nameless.
For the workers silenced with checks.
For the faith that forgot to be kind.
For the country that forgot to be free.

Stand.
Even when your knees shake.
Stand.
Even when your voice cracks.
Stand.
Even when you stand alone.

Because somewhere—
in the marrow of another aching body,
in the breath of a child not yet born,
in the soil where truth is buried but not gone—
someone is listening.

And they will rise too.

You are not alone.
You are not alone.
You are not alone.

Chains do not break
with prayers alone.
They break with courage,
with sacrifice,
with truth spoken loud
in rooms that beg for silence.
They break
when we refuse to be grateful
for cages with pillows.

They break
when we sing
despite the smoke in our lungs.
They break
when we remember
we were never born to kneel.

So cry.
Let the grief fall like rain.
Mourn what was.
Mourn what could’ve been.
Mourn what still is.

But when the weeping ends—
rise.

Rise like thunder.
Rise like morning.
Rise like your name
was written in freedom
long before you learned to breathe.

Rise,
because the light is not free—
but it is worth
the cost.