A Room Of One's Own

(Verse 1)
The path along the river is forbidden to my feet
The library's great oak door says my mind is not complete
I see the scholars walking, in a world they call their own
While I'm arranging flowers in a house that's not my throne
They talk of great ideas, in a loud and certain voice
While I compose my sentences, and silence is my choice

(Pre-Chorus)
But then a whisper finds me, from a writer long ago
“Five hundred pounds a year, my dear, and lock you need to know.”
“Not for spite, not for pride, but for a simple, solid space
To let a thought begin to grow, to find its proper pace.”

(Chorus)
A room of one's own, a key to turn the lock
A mind unchained from constant need, a foundation built on rock
No ghost of expectation standing over my design
This space, this time, this quiet light, this solitary line
A room of one's own, a world that I can rule
To be not just a mirror, but the primary, breathing school.

(Verse 2)
They hand me all the compliments, like “angel of the house”
To keep my aspirations small and quiet as a mouse
They say my worth is measured in the service I provide
To shrink my dreams to fit the walls of someone else's pride
And Simone, she warned me, with her intellectual might
“One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman in their sight.”

(Pre-Chorus)
And the room, it isn't luxury, it's not a mere retreat
It is the frontline of the war, a revolutionary seat
Where I can scream or I can sing, or I can just be still
And reclaim all the territories of my own free will.

(Chorus)
A room of one's own, a key to turn the lock
A mind unchained from constant need, a foundation built on rock
No ghost of expectation standing over my design
This space, this time, this quiet light, this solitary line
A room of one's own, a world that I can rule
To be not just a mirror, but the primary, breathing school.

(Bridge)
And from this room, a network grows, a thousand threads of gold
Connecting every sister's story waiting to be told
It's not about a lonely cell, a final, cold divorce
It's building our own universe, from a forgotten, central force.

(Outro)
My room.
My pen.
My hand.
My land.
It starts…
With a room of one's own.
It always… starts.