They called me an idealist, a dreamer, a lunatic,

For hunting the truth to set relics.

For questioning constructs from the Paleolithic,

They called me an embodiment of the word “skeptic.”

Their words to mine were dull and vague,

Brushed away in discussions that I did partake.

But though they worked so hard to break,

It’s a part of me I won’t forsake.

For I would rather be that list -

A dreamer, a lunatic, and a silly little idealist,

Than to dance where the herd of lambs persist.

One day I hope –

                                                                                                            I’ll win the whist.




Author Bio: This poem is for anyone who refuses to accept things at face-value, and prefers challenging popular constructs/practices despite the inevitable backlash their opinions are bound to face.

Erika is a third-year graduate student who writes about life when she’s not in her lab coat.