Rebellion

 

When I was six years old
I joined a pageant
walked on the runway
their eyes were upon me
as if I were an angel in their in their lives
captivated by my charms
marveled at my talents.
I acted in front of them,
“..my mother’s dead, my mother’s dead.
What? Mother’s dead without
my knowing?..”
Tears fell from my own eyes,
and theirs too.
I could make them cry
except her–
she clapped her hands
with half disappointment
behind her smile.
How could I please her?
I never thought of winning the crown
as long as I see her brightest smile.

But now,
I was a rebel
I refused all the things
she want me to do.
I didn’t follow
every command she said.
After all,
she would never be happy
if she saw me.
I was like a criminal
without sin.
I was like a thorn

in her face.

 

I reminisced

everything I’ve done.

Somehow,

I benefited from being

rebellious.

But–

she did not.

I was remembering then,

the last part of my piece–

“..could I live without my mother?

Oh God, forgive me”.

Tears fell from my eyes,

I could not make her to smile.

Rebellion was not the answer,

but a question either.

 

Tags: dimples, narrative poem, poetry, rebellion