Dearest Rebel,
Grandiosity replenishes this sour world, its roots dipped in kindness, which empties out in a flicker too soon, its replenishment an honor bestowed upon those of disposition gentle, filled with burdens, duty, and rule.
May such an honor
never be bestowed upon me,
for I only see a slumbering doom
waking to righten the kilter if need be.
Such an honor where an engulfing kindness instills its throne in me, where those of demands employ gnarly claws, disguised ill intent as protective calls, to rob me and leave me with audacious words, “Humankind will benefit in your name; the fame will be yours.”
Such an honor is only in false name,
where the rightful holder owns no place,
only a vessel for the world
as they purposefully proclaim.
The rewards that must be drawn on limbs, those called of great significance, imbued with plenty of wins, are wasteful in considered potential, for the rewards whose redemption have conditions so mighty tall can only ever lead to an illusory high, the only next predicament a mighty fall.
May such rewards never fall upon me,
where its reclamation a tentative possibility
in reincarnations
I do not recognize myself in.
No lingering ghosts of me, no parted, broken pieces of the soul of me rejoices in an act worthy of such a greedy audience, hungry of simple pleasures to drench their voids in while losing the battle with their conscience.
The audience which will bask
in the niceties I leave as my legacy
by emptying myself in full
to cultivate a fertile land
by the rising moon and the glimmering sea.
While my thoughts remain ripe with such musings, karma appears forsaking its preoccupancy to whisper in my ear lovely promises of deliverance, redeeming costs of pleasantness as its gifts given to one of gentle voice who softly sings. But I ask, what use of its late arrival?
What of its sweet taste
when I would have departed
to begin a fresh chapter
starting with a bland empty page?
Admiration of my deeds, of my sacrifices, of the tasteful meals I’ll let pupils of culture to feast, what of it? If the burden of its implications will remain bound to me, go to the ground with me, as I’m laid in the moss-covered forest lands, to shrink, die, and be freed forever of such responsibility, what will I do of such a thing? Answer me.
What use of breakage of my soul
to serve its devised new experience in the living,
of unsettled good deeds, of bartered reverence
that’ll follow me past the eventful yet taxing evenings,
What use of giving becoming receiving in new times, if it will only lend to new scars on my legs fastened in barbaric heavy chains dowsing my will to give, no matter how holy the cries?
Let it be known, the jewels in gold,
silver, mesmerizing rare stones,
weighed all together, could hold no exchange
with the scars of my innocence that’ll stay imprinted
on my fractured, tender bones.
The glory and praise is mistaken to be worthy of the countless times I will let myself be of service. For it only puts you in face of the raging anguish I wish to raise. Be good. Leave, before my darkness makes haste. Don’t make trials of temptations with me,
I’m no star who desires burning to bring light,
one that guides even the blind eyes,
masks the pains, covers wounds in blossoming vines.
I’m willfully against to be such an exploding star, to be the north for those seeking destination far, to be the carrier of woes and wishes to the heavens placed beyond the invisible bars. To be a star, to burn with each breath, when fire reaches its end, what will be left to mend?
Will I then plead with my good deeds
as a case in my favor,
to the subjects of my pity, sympathy, empathy
for a kindness in the weight of a dime to savour?
No, for I know the world is an excellent taker masking, a generous deceiver with praise as its weapon, willing to stab in the back for having the nerve of asking. So, I shall, for the reasons right and faithfully mine, refuse any duty, serving and casket made of pliant crimes.
No jewels to weigh, no crowns to rob,
no stars to burn, no breath given freely
for the undeserving to govern.
I refuse the burdens cunningly formed from ribbons of the ones heedless. The reserves of my strength are pledged first to myself, later, when deemed worthy, to those of concord and familiar feelings found in their heart’s crest.
Rebel, dearest.