I am surrounded by rebels,
but I am not one of them.

They are camped outside the town,
tattooing their arms,
piercing their faces,
dyeing their hair vibrant colors,
and demanding change in the world.

They say that they are rebels:
the whole lot of them,
all doing the same thing,
calling it standing out –
being different.

But are they any different
than the group of people
labeled as tyrants –
the ones that wear suits,
keep their hair trimmed,
and buy furniture from catalogs?

Yes. They are. They are the rebels,
standing out,
being unique,
all together,
all at the same time.

They ask me to join them,
to throw the monotony of life
into the faces of those who enjoy it.

But I ignore them.
I do my own thing.
I eat my leftovers cold
and I want to paint my house pumpkin orange
and I have a yellow mushroom lamp
and I sleep without sheets
and I talk in strange voices to my dogs
and I laugh at lame jokes because joy is powerful
and I have a spiky bamboo plant on my kitchen table
and I have a home-made ceramic black lion on my nightstand
and I wear my jeans past their fashionable expiration date
and I tie-die my t-shirts that feel nice
and I let my hair grow wildly tame
and I spend more money on my computer than any girlfriend could ever hope for
and I love my arms covered with scars from bygone adventures in the woods
and I feel perfectly fine.

'Cause they are the rebels
and I'm just me.