The Black Sheep

I am like no one you have met,
easy to remember, easier to forget.

I'm not one to smell every rose,
yet always care more than I disclose.

Never to join in on the trends,
but always loyal to family and friends.

Where I walk, misery will follow,
always truthful, but always hollow.

Hopelessly lost, seemingly strange,
I feel my dreams are out of range.

My fleece hides the deepening scars,
the emotional prison with invisible bars.

Yet...

People will point and ridicule,
unknowingly they give me fuel.

The fuel to to rise, the fuel to incite,
the motivation to rant and to write.

I am never sure I will find my peace,
but I am starting to embrace the ebon fleece.

I am different, that is to be sure,
for years I was labeled as obscure.

Rightfully so, the darkness is mine,
a realm where light will not shine.

In darkness, we are all the same,
so I find no reason to feel that shame.

So I will be the scapegoat, or sheep,
the outward projection of anger you keep.

I will wander and meander throughout the land,
as a puzzling enigma, that you'll never understand.