Outcast
we point toward magnetic truths others cannot feel
they will tell you
the aching
in your chest
means something
is wrong with you
but
misfits are not
broken compasses—
we point toward
magnetic truths
others cannot feel
in the spaces between
their conversations
you learned
the language
of your own
burning
the loneliness you carry
is not
emptiness—
it is the canyon
where your authenticity
echoes
waiting for
someone brave enough
to hear
its true pitch
what they call
“not fitting in”
our ancestors knew
as discernment—
the wolf-sense
that sniffs out
shallow ground
and keeps walking
toward deeper
water
Thank you, Sean. This is the ache and echo of so many of us. Some are lucky enough to be poets. This one is a treasure to hold near my heart.