personal rebellion

Rebel

It doesn’t matter. It never did. What do you know about being a rebel? Others talk about ‘real life’. This ‘real life’ we get back to after something different, something stronger. Well here I am as I live and breathe enveloped in every second and living the one I’ve got.

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Rebel Girl

A nose piercing. 
             You copied it.
A well intended trip into vegetarianism. 
               You wanted me to fail.
A drain familiar with protein shakes. 
               You couldn't accept my BMI was healthy.
A newfound love of yellow. 
               You banned it from my wardrobe.
A craving for salt and vinegar crisps. 
               You and you alone could eat those.
A need to defend animals. 
               You kicked our lovely wee cat.
A respect for my grandparents. 

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Take a stand

Please note: this piece contains strong language

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COP 88

The first act of rebellion
Against extended Education
To sign up for a uniform.

My family.
Not criminals, not outlaws, just decent distanced folk
Devastated.
Doors slammed on my possibilities.

Police HQ
Ugly concrete squat of blank windows
Ordered in rows
Walking into the lions den
Through long corridors
To its heart
Fear fluttering inside.

Change. Challenge.
Do something that scares you.
Every day
I did.
Cop 88.

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The Outsider

What can I say of the woods and country roads near where I grew up? I lived and still live in a beautiful part of the world called Ayrshire in South-West Scotland. In fact I love the Ayrshire countryside so much that even named my writing group South-West Writers just to remind myself of how lucky I am.

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without knowing what a rebel is

Without knowing what a rebel is,
I stayed away from school,
smoked cigarettes and hung round
vast cities – silent and lost.

I’ve not changed –
the edges lure me,
empty, forgotten margins:
that’s where I like to play.

Come sit with me,
cross-legged and free.
We’ll share stories of the
true heroism of youth.

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Finding Confidence in Non-Conformity

My fingers fumbled with a well-worn lace as I knotted the first boot. I took a deep breath before moving onto the second, shaking slightly, a nauseating sensation of anxiety bubbling away in the pit of my stomach.

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Crime Outfit

Billy never wanted to be a rebel. He wanted a quiet life. Playing footy with his mates in the street, wandering down by the river after dark, making campfires and playing on the swing rope over the water on long summer evenings when the flies buzzed in clouds.

But his family was known in the district for generations of crime. It was a proud tradition of robbing, stealing and general thuggery. Kids at his school steered clear of Billy, scared of what might happen if they got involved in some way with his infamous family. 

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The Comics! The Comics!

Mum and Dad expected me to leap, blind,
from pictures to prose. But I never did.
Instead I was hacked up, not raised up,
by those horrible blinking comics--

scripted, drafted, inked and lettered,
printed and distributed, sold and traded,
thumbed through and poured over--
what little words there were, were uppercase

and the kerning was off so that innocent FLICKS
were given new meaning--they read me well.
Page one, panel one, blank and white,
save for that dirty black spot in the corner.

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Wetsuit

Wetsuit

The water.

Dark before me, cold - that crushing, heartstopping chill -

The icelaced memory of youth, ebb and flow there, in North Sea waves.

A rebellion now: this body, its’ years of life - of lifegiving and lifeliving - marked across the skin;

stretched scars of joy, of tears, of memories - the sag of days passing; wrinkles etching recollection.

Yes, a rebellion then, to pull on this neoprene suit

its’ inky thickness wrapping this aging self of mine, warming these bones which now feel the ache of years in their joints,

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