They barked, “You do not fit, don’t tag along!
Be gone, you beast! Your kind is not our kin.”
But I, awakened by their jarring song,
Refused to bow, or break myself to win.
I’d rather die than join the cruel and smug,
Who sip from sameness like a poison jug,
And mock all things that don’t reflect their own,
A feast of noise, no music in their bone.
I’ll thrive while they still flinch at who I am,
Their quacks like lashes, crude and misaligned.
My neck, though long, bears verses worth the dam,
While theirs, mere stubs, lack rhythm, thought, or mind.
So let them jeer, my soul, they cannot wrong.
Their sight is short. My truth is feather-strong.
