posted on Mar, 21 2010 @ 07:48 AM
My rebel should’ve come with a warning, a stick to plant in my yard, a nifty sign BEWARE, CAUTION or even better a neat little how to guide.
However, as I am typing this desire, I am aware that had I popped from the womb with instructions or been tattooed with a reminder, my rebel is alive
within not caged outside of myself. My rebel is mine to master.
I walk about my life, my yard, carefully. I question my steps at every opportunity and usually plant my feet on something solid but every now and
then, my path leads to a heaping hot pile. This boiling stank that infuriates my senses must be dealt with.
I would prefer a block, or a hole. I can create or encounter such obstacles and persevere by pressing on. With these distractions, I am left clean,
perhaps scarred but free of stain. It’s the steaming filth that I step in which labels me as refuse. I am troubled by this realization. I love my
rebel even as its biting me in the butt. I prepare for the inevitable defecation by purchasing (with my pride) metaphoric baggies of “I
apologize“. I attempt to tame my rebel, teach it to poo on command. My rebel never listens and let’s loose where it will.
My rebel is an ugly mutt but I continue to feed it knowing it must be kept strong in order to defend me from what is just beyond the fence. I wonder
where or when I might find a leash.
[Mod Edit - snip]
Mod Note: Profanity/Circumvention Of Censors – Please Review This Link.
[edit on 21/3/2010 by Sauron]
[edit on 21-3-2010 by MsAmen]