Every dim day beneath a gray sky
When the hot air has grown stale
in the tangential presence of every
memory which sucks moisture as it grazes by
I smile, stare into the distance and say,
today I am alive, and there is a world which is great!
And I run, for this is my rebellion.

Every moment I see someone jaded by a world of ideals
turn and look at me with a face which tells me
that I am nothing, I smile right back
through that pain, and I think, oh you poor, poor person.
You are a person, but you’ve made your self into a caricature,
and your world collapsed in succession. But I believe you are
a person to me, and this is my rebellion.

Every time a whisper in the wind
blows up a storm between my ears
telling me that I am impossible,
I look into the mirror.
I say, I am there, and you a storm
upon the puddle which is the norm.
I land gracefully as the winds stop
and dance again, and this is my rebellion.

Tell me your problems my friend, tell me why you’re a
rebel without a cause, I pause, and I ask
what are we bred for but to see imperfection?
What is the jist of our goals past eternal correction?
You scowl and you swear and laude your cross to bear
and i’d offer to take that banner, but you’d have no direction.
You say they do not know you? Be something to know.
You say you are different? Than hell, direct your show!
Life is imperfect, I am even further, and time is short
when you see the entropy.
Keep sticking up your middle finger, see if the trees care.
Or just smile, and tilt your head towards it all.
You are untouchable.
You are free.


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