My safe zone,
My place to rest,
The home I,
The opposite,
Was placed in,
Is a loud world,
Whereas I'm a whisper,
Yet the quantity of their chatter,
Breaks the drums of the ear.
When my feet touch the ground,
I don't feel a tight grip.
When I lie down,
In my chosen bed,
I don't feel comfort,
Yet, I,
The opposed,
Love my home,
And hope to sleep sound.
People notice me,
I'm not here to belong.
My world,
Is not my world.
It is everyone else's.
I wasn't made for their expectations.
To be part of their conversations,
To fit in.
I was meant to love it,
My backwards world,
Yet, never feel at home.
I was meant to be the outlier,
The antonym, in a world,
Of synonyms.
And I hold that truth,
With the greatest honor,
But I do wish,
I was consulted,
When my fate to be,
The difference.
They know I'd say no.
I wouldn't do it,
Because this isn't my home.
YOU ARE READING
The Typo
PoetrySometimes poetry is the only way I can express my emotions, so here's a book inspired by life in general, but more specifically, my life.
