Some are proud to be illegal
For power, for wealth, for fame
Some are afraid to be illegal
For life, for safety, for shame.
The word 'Illegal' laughs in a corner
No one knows the reality
But they all try to become the owner
Calls it the business of cruelty.
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Are you, are you illegal!
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Tell me, are you illegal!
Afraid because of the terror
Proud because of the swag
And this is the prime error
They set here a wrong tag.
Not the drugs, not the guns
They all are out of the race
Beyond all, something runs
Easy to know, hard to face.
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Are you, are you illegal!
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Tell me, are you illegal!
Read the book of human society
The book of their constitution
Truth, the most illegal, their anxiety
Can't be found in any institution.
Read the life of all the rebels
The fighters, the thinkers, the inventors
They raised the truth in the jails
Unknown, insulted, someone wanders.
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Are you, are you illegal!
Illegal! Illegal! Illegal!
Tell me, are you illegal!
Line of inquiry:
“Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version”
- by Unseeking Seeker
We weren’t born rebels by nature
Our psychological dispositions allure
Shaping us to be defiant to authoritative rule
When forced to respond to pressures.
Oftentimes, when freedom has restricted
Rebel’s conditioned beliefs are discarded
Then a high sensation seeking is suffocated
And the boredom intolerance is fueled.
When a rebel rose from his desire or aversion
Meditation must be an armor, our immersion
Let’s all pray to God for wisdom and supplication
Keep us from inequity and face spiritual desperation.
can rebels be shy or demure?
can silence be outcry?
can resistance be made pure?
let me tell you my answer
rebels need not fight or shout
we need only defy
to always let our true selves out
we are both drummer and dancer
The Rebel
The rain drums
splattering rhyming melodies
Lightning flickers
dancing delightfully
as thunder renders
a resounding applause
Amidst the rumbling rankle
a man is silent
Baffled by the fleeting beauty
as the heavenlies
seemingly sits dim
The sun peeps
cracking open
the blackened clouds
birthing hopes in trickles
fostering attempts
to remove the shackles
strapping us to yesterday
When life detonates
and a well ordered life
shatters and leaves pieces
dangling like space dust
you can curl up in a corner
and leave it as is, or you can
dance to your own tune like no
one is watching and make art out
of destruction and hope the the end
result will be a beautiful and
meaningful life well lived
As I have grown older, so many things have changed, from the things I dreamt of and those I never had.
Now it doesn't matter as I sit in my chair, you speak, advise and I listen but despite your mediation and ideas of immersion I still just sit.
How things have changed, how many people have gone, and still I just sit looking at the world, I have seen so much, that now I feel neither desire or aversion to the way people are.
I started as a man who set myself standards and managed peoples expectations, but here I still sit with all those conditional beliefs discarded.
People come, people go and night continues to follow the day, as I feel things slowly slipping away, I think about my final farewell, I won't say what songs to sing, just ask that all have a hymn to hum, hummed in your own special version.
GOODBYE
The rebel
Line of inquiry:
“Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version”
Strongly I feel, I am longing for “A” one;
Justly I be intense desire;
Personal how be it drawn;
I fight against authority;
I am hierarchy;
Best be believe in me;
Repugnance, to do paired said desire;
Masting said, FIRE,
feelings of dislike, repugnance bio;
Unwillingness to do something see,
One thing paired with a desire to turn away
Subject matter dismantled, swayed
Such a soul dissident, I am a maverick;
Under baptism totally involved in an activity,
or subjects matters;
Deeply I am focus;
Midst the Hocus-Pokus;
Hymnos be still my Song of Praise;
Earth and Heaven raise my name;
Purpose of adoration, I be of royal deity;
I am the Him in Hymn, really!
worship someone or something through song;
Not conceited, I’m exceeded
A Revolutionary nonconformist just an Insurgent
Never am I ever flaw, nor wrong;
I am a true rebel- for I question
the words of my catholic rigid rules.
And will rise up to claim my self-expression,
keeping the parts that are like precious jewels.
Spiritual freedom is my obsession . . .
I do not want to be like the mindless ghouls.
Forces of desiring things creates aversion,
and pushing these things away creates diversion.
So, I let go of all useless craving
and let go of the resistance and fears.
Stop the beliefs like old etched engraving,
I hang from stars that seem a chandelier.
Don't obey all the catholic ravings,
but hold what I consider to be dear.
Through meditation my focus is unbroken,
and I can hear my spiritual voice spoken.
I turn away from any cult-like faith
throwing away all the rigid mindset.
Discard all the bible verses that saith,
to find my inner song- I press reset.
I will seek a journey to interfaith,
and hum to my internal clarinet.
I am placing all those old teachings on a shelf,
to begin an amazing journey to myself.
“Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version”
After rain, the burnt paddock smells of iron.
Rusted wire hums along the boundary,
teaching the grass its old obedience.
All my life, I mistook such lines
for safety.
I do not have to follow.
My mind is a dry, hot wind
stirring the ash;
a frantic moth beating
against the unyielding wire.
It is the sudden clawing of a frightened animal,
the bitter, ancient lure of being right,
the tide that pulls the old hymns from my throat.
I do not have to follow.
Instead, cold rain enters the ash-dark soil.
The run-off clears, stripping the blackened crust
until desire and aversion
loosen their old grip.
A single grey thrush resumes its quiet call,
and what was rigid loosens into breath,
unbound from the boundary I carried within.
I do not have to follow.
I walk away from the rusted wire,
humming no song I was given—
only the rain’s small rhythm
finding its way through me.
Neither desire nor aversion
Meditation our immersion
Conditioned beliefs discarded
Hymns we hum are our own version.
Beyond the pull of grief or passion
Stillness becomes our single fashion
Old dogmas fade to illusory smoke
Thought refined in silent action
The quiet heart where truth resides
We drift beyond the shifting tides
Unbound by dogma, free from fear
Pure freedom where the self decides
No empty gods to now appease
No shadows crawling on their knees
The mind awakes to raw design
Unshackled from ancient decrees
We weave the light from inner flame
No longer playing in their game
Our sacred origin revealed
A holy song without a name
The Rebel
Evening flames falter and die
Suffocated in the night’s cool embrace
A bed of sleepy orange embers
Gradually give way to blue ash
Beneath the hush of silky starlight
A solitary glow persists
Holding against the encroaching dark
Refusing surrender
In daybreak’s velvet breath
Veils of ash, like petals, drift aimlessly away
While the ember defies obliteration
With subtle inner-warmth
In the gall of yesterday’s ruin
It burns for promises never spoken
What remains, quietly transformed
Exhales and ignites something new.
9/17/2026 - For The Rebel Poetry Contest hosted by Unseeking Seeker
Skipping stones along a crumbling ground
How does it work with no one around?
If there is no one to read
What do I write for?
If there is no one writing
What do I read?
Ambition against the machine
Flesh gives to the metal
A pen’s work is easily destroyed
The cloud is forever
Art is human
Art is mine
But wherefore art thou reader?
When mine art is displayed?
The last shavings.
Wood from his guitar.
And whatever else was in his treasure trove.
He used to be selfless.
He said that was trite as a favorite pit stop.
That stop sign is gone, now what?
Crushed up his favorite guitar.
His skateboard too.
Huh.
Right after the tombstone went up.
The crowd left.
Hmm.
When you get buried, they write stuff down.
Like good stuff.
He wasn’t sure he liked words.
Did he just play guitar and skateboard?
That stuff got splattered anyway.
The eulogies were trite as a guy spitting on the ground.
His best friend called him a rebel.
Maybe in death or life, but it left a prickly feeling in the ground.
Temptation.
The crowd left.
So he couldn’t play his ghost guitar after all.
standing alone in the eye of the storm,
he doesn't care that he's seen
as an iconoclast.
not afraid to defy conventions.
a non-conformist to the core;
strong sense of independence,
zags when everyone zigs,
leads, never follows.
he stands alone;
marches to
different
drum
I was taught which road to follow
Before I knew roads turn and curve
I was handed all the answers
Before I had a chance to learn
They called obedience virtue
When it meant I should not ask why
So, I learned to question quietly
sat under that normal seeming blue sky
My rebellion didn't shout
I did not need to start a war
sometimes rebellion is simply
opening an unfamiliar door
Now the words I speak are chosen
The path beneath my feet is mine
If I sing a different tune now
it is because I chose each line
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