Markings (Poetry)

I cannot change my spots — they mark me out
as different — flukish aberrant — near-freak
I’ll never be their type — that’s not in doubt
for I can’t power down and merge with weak.

It’s always rough so far left of the norm —
a wild card drawn so blindly from the pack
I was not born as dull and uniform —
a maverick pattern’s etched across my back.

And so I run apart from the main herd
who eye me with suspicion — sense some threat
old superstitions nurture the absurd
my nature judged intolerable — they get

uncomfortable — unsettled in their rut
resentful an outsider such as me
exists at all — their narrow minds stay shut
while mine is thinking, feeling — running free.