Misfits

From roots of shared soil, I am the strange vine,

A different bloom, a skewed and strange design.

They speak the family language, steeped in lore,

But my tongue trips on phrases they adore.

My laughter is a chord that strikes a little flat,

A shadow in the sun where all the others sat.

I trace the branches of the common tree,

And see the fruit they bear, so unlike me.

The patterns of their lives, a woven tapestry,

But I'm a single, unpicked thread, wild and free.

My gifts, to them, are strange and out of place,

A lonely star in their familiar space.

I listen to their murmurs, soft and deep,

A language of unspoken promises they keep.

And though I love the echoes of their sound,

I hear a melody that I, alone, have found.

It calls to me from pastures far away,

To walk a wilder path, a brighter, different day.

They cannot know the landscape of my mind,

The secret doors and pathways I designed.

They see a shadow where they want a form,

A quiet, lonely harbor in their storm.

But in my solitude, a strength has grown,

The proud and simple courage of my own.

So let me be the misfit, standing tall,

The black sheep that refuses to fall.

For in this difference, a new grace takes its hold,

A richer story waiting to be told.

I'll build my own home, a place to call my own,

And on that fertile ground, I will be known.