The Rebel

Sitting silently, hearing the lecturer talk,

A sense of alienation creeps over me

With gripping fear ,as his voice fades, I head into oblivion .

My hands often meandering to the back pages of my notebook.

 It is my haven , my escape , my pretence.

I write there.

No, not the empirical formulas and despot laws,

Whose existence though not unquestionable,

But , are a complication to prove.

I write about what I cannot speak of then,

My life , my love , my belief , my passion.

It is here , in the rear end of the notebook,

I melt my mask and spill out my inky soul .

Yet somehow I keep up the pretence of comprehending

Whatever it is , the educator is dictating,

his voice remains unheard to my ears.

Perhaps our masquerading is perpetual , 

Even when we are most vulnerable

We pour our heart out to some , yet repress it from others simultaneously.

Keeping up the act.

But , I digress from the epicentre of our dialogue.

I write in rebellion , to the tyranny around me.

Not of fascists or monarchs , but of savages,

Who though seemingly powerless are the most fearsome

They call themselves society.

Disappointed , no , disgusted rather I am

In the nurturing of the virgin minds by these oppressors.

Where Darwin is despicably forced down their throats

Not to live , but to survive

Ravaging the pillars of humanity,

To capitulate their sense of free will and maturity.

My revolt is against such autocracy of society,

Hypocrisy in the face of democracy, a fable of the years gone by.

This mutiny of mine is to rise for the end ,

Not with slogans but with ink,

Not with swords but with words

Not a mob , but a sole rebel

For revolution like fire needs a spark.

Nonconformist I am for I repudiate their principles,

My revolution is my escape

Through the pages to my haven,

Obliterating reality , phasing out whenever I face such tyranny.

My hands often meandering to the back pages of my notebook.