Rebelliousness is not my choice.
I do not like to raise my voice.
At meetings, if I choose to go,
I like to frequent the back row.
I don’t sit in. I do not picket.
Resistance is a sticky wicket.
Not for me the protest march.
I’m missing nerve. I lack the starch.
So if I choose to be a hellion,
I’ll find a way that’s not rebellion.
The prompt: write a poem that involves rebellion in some way. (This is tongue in cheek. I actually did march in this demonstration.)