"In the depths of destitution, a mind festers with spite,
As fingers point outward, in a blame-shifting delight.
The voices of envy whisper, 'He's lucky, he's blessed',
A convenient excuse, to avoid the mirror's unrest.

The father's wealth, a crutch, to justify one's own shame,
A cheat, a thief, a liar, all labels to deflect the blame.
But in the darkness of failure, a truth slowly unfolds,
That the only prison, is the one that's self-built, with bolts of gold.

The society, a stage, where puppets dance and play,
But the strings of financial freedom, are cut, come what may.
For in the end, it's not the world, that's to blame,
But the reflection, that stares back, with a hollow, vacant claim.

So let the voices whisper, let the fingers point and scorn,
But in the silence of night, the truth will still be born.
That financial independence, is a war, that's won within,
And the only enemy, is the excuse, that's locked and pinned."