Poem: The Old Rebel

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.

 

5 thoughts on “Poem: The Old Rebel”

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