Least Read Poems About Rebellion

I am always thus
your ever spiny weed
unwilling to recede
always making my presence
known
being truly homegrown
I do thrive in being alive
making a statement

penning a poem

Smash the hands, insurrectionist.
The hour is over.
We gather at the feet of the clocktower—
not to tell time,
but to end it.
No more ticking.
No more schedules like shackles.
We bury calendars in rubble
and measure moments
in footsteps,
in shattered glass,
in the pause before the charge.
Time belongs to tyrants.
To the ones who punch in,
lock out,
wind down their souls
until they forget the sound
of stillness.
But we remember.
We remember how to stretch a second
into...