The Outlier

He usually wandered around aimlessly,
staring at distressed walls,
in search of metamorphosis.

He was a painter, or at least, he believed he was
but he hadn’t painted in a while,
his fingers no longer fiddled with the paint brush-
it was dunked in an old cup, creating an ugly brown
his palettes dried out, paint tubes shrivelled.

His favourite shade was sadness,
unusual to many-
it allowed him to be creative, it sparked a muse
criticism followed him, some urging for something different-
they only wanted to feel a tinge of euphoria,
but he gave them the exact opposite.

It wasn’t his responsibility to please,
depending on others for happiness was
society’s worst habit.
a form of pleasure we don’t like to be responsible for.
He denied the power as it
interrupted his flair.

They sent him new palettes of unique colours,
a false attempt to inspire,
desperately trying to eliminate the sad shade he loved,
wanting to sculpt him into their perfect mould,
his canvas, his safe haven was exploited.

First, they change you and then they replace you.
He was their outlier.
A dot that stained their perfect line of fit-
it confused them, an unfamiliar myth,
they didn’t do so well with the outsiders.

It didn’t bother him though.
He returned to his canvas with a newer paintbrush in hand-
his favorite shade on display, bolder than ever.
a talent that was confined but soon
was returned.

He was their outlier.
They know they needed him-
but their satisfaction was almost non-existent. For,
he gave them a sharp awakening, a reality they denied-
a disappointing shared identity.


1 Comment

  1. November 16, 2017 / 1:49 pm

    Wonderfully expressed….👍

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