I step into rooms of laughter and light,
Bright petals of crimson, but I’m the white.
Their voices swirl, like winds through the trees,
Yet none of their words ever reach me with ease.
They speak in tongues I can’t seem to know,
Names and stories that fail to show
Any meaning or warmth to me,
I’m a lone white rose where red should be.
I nod and smile, pretending to hear,
Telling myself I belong here, near,
Yet my thoughts drift to simpler scenes,
To open skies, to quiet dreams.
I’m playing a part in a script I don’t know,
Their laughter echoes, but I feel the hollow,
Forced smiles in photographs framed and staged,
A story told, but my soul caged.
How I long to find a circle of kind,
People with warmth and like-minded minds,
Where laughter feels soft, and smiles are real,
Where being myself is all I reveal.
So here I sit with a gentle facade,
A ghost in the room, apart and odd,
Wishing to dance, to laugh, to belong,
In a garden where each flower finds its song.
All I want is to feel included and not be the odd one in the bunch
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