Overwhelmed by choices
overwhelmed by heroes
forcefully fed the personality you should be
conforming you since birth
molded by loving hands
that were influenced by foreign touch
neither they know what to be
nor you.
But the rebel in the man can’t be fully silenced
at worst, you can still hear its agonizing death
at best, it guides your thoughts
makes you see the lifelessness
the cowardice
the transference of soul.
Giving up on the individual
the masses funnel their spirit into one being
hoping that it’ll bring relief
that it’ll make them immortal
Christ, democracy, wealth, white picket fence
whatever distracts the mind
whatever keeps the rebel quiet.
The old man swings by himself
the swingset for his granddaughter
the old man thinks by himself
thoughts only for his family
the old man lives by himself
family living elsewhere
the old man hears nothing but the moans,
tired grey eyes,
tortured grey eyes,
squeezing tears out of those grey eyes,
the rebel moans,
wishing he could wipe away his choices as he wipes away the tears.
Learned Living 
5 thoughts on “Poem: The Old Rebel”