I walk the streets
Looking for friends
I walk the streets in
The middle of the night
As I am in search of
Of friend life forms
But only to
Be met with hate
Only to be ridiculed
Only to be
Forced to fit in

why must i be viewed as an anomaly in this world?
as i gaze into the eyes of those who are above me,  i can only wonder.
for what have i done that is considered sin? is my mere presence like
a gilded elephant in a room of monochrome silhouettes? i hold firmly
on the last vibrant balloon of my fleeting conviction as i walk between the masses,
wondering “what have i done to deserve this hell?” as i tread the roads
of this winding society, i let loose of the balloon, and the colors begin to drain from my life.
now, i am but a puppet of society. tie the string around my arm and carry me like a balloon,
and let me go as the days pass. let me fly into the skies to eventually pop
and plummet back down as you find your new toy, and repeat the process, as to you i was but rubber and plastic. and i am. i am rubber and plastic - let me rot for the solstices to pass as my dead body gazes into the sky for a lifetime, awaiting to be buried in the soil. i am but the pieces of the fragile material that endured too much pressure and just popped.

In shadows cast, I stand alone
An outcast in a world unknown
Misunderstood, a soul apart
I bear the weight of my wounded heart.

In crowded rooms, I fade away
An echo lost in the disarray.
Invisible threads, they pass me by
A silent tear, my whispered cry.

Yet, in my solitude, I find solace
Embracing uniqueness with fierce promise
For within these depths, a light will shine
A beacon of truth, no longer confined.

Though different paths, we all may tread
I'll wear my outcast cloak with grace, instead
For it's in the margins where I find my might
A symphony of colors, painting my plight.

So let me wander, let me roam
An outcast's spirit, forever my home
For it's in this journey, unbound and free
I embrace my truth and claim my destiny

The same blood you have, is also a curse to have!
I should be glad, but I'm mad as the one dealing
with the pride of some forefathers dad.

I was taught not to place all of my blame on
how my parents had raised me.
But I can't keep blaming myself; as if they'll praise me.
I often grew up wondering what actual resemblance I
had of my dad.

The last born nobody knew, the other son all the relatives
thought was just some random nephew.
The family picture felt too big for me to be noticed in it's frame.
I felt as a son; but only a son by just the family's name.

Seems I wasn't born the same.

All the first impressions of thinking my mother
was just my aunty. Thinking I was adopted by relatives,
because my real family didn't really want me.


"Maybe I was switched at birth," I thought to myself.
We all could be walking on the same ground,
doesn't mean we're all so down to Earth.

I guess I was buried in it,
for constantly being the one to take up the family's dirt.

The theory of a twin, who died in the womb.
I've felt so incomplete. Missing the other half to make me fit.
Hoping I had died that time as a baby; when I had my first fit.

But to my twin up in Heaven I hope you're keeping that space
for both of us. By the chance my sins get ahead of me,
Could I get into Heaven by the chance of your luck?

To my father on Earth, I grew up wondering if I was ever
the son you wanted, or the one you deserved.
Maybe I secretly got on your nerves, as I felt the
disappointment in those many cuss words.

To my mother in church, I'm not your little boy anymore.
Neither that daughter you treat me as.
My manhood to peers, seemed so poor. And yet I'm the ear
that listens to all of your words, but not the mouth to tell
you my many truths by the galore.

To my brothers by name, we all knew we were never the same.
But as life went in one direction, I was the child who went
the other way. I can remember all of those harsh words
you often said. As if I'm tasting them all from too many past
yesterdays.

To my sister I never had, life could of been easier if you
were the child the family actually had.
That's all I can say, because that's all that I have.

Sighed;

The Black sheep.

Little divested flower,
Shame— how you break with the peak of light.
A blossom they might think,
You're still a phony stick.
Is it guilt filling the scene?
Or is it just the sunbeam?