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by Lacie Tomson

Misfit wandering through the woods
Seeing them differently than anyone before
Rubbing her fingers over the veins of the leaves like they deserve to be adored.
Misfit turning her eyes to the ground instead of looking to the skies
Pondering what might live beneath the spot where an enormous rock precisely lies.
Many might think the misfit strange
Many might think her odd
Some might even think her deranged
Some might think her unbearably flawed
But still the misfit carries on
Walking a path no one else will ever know
Struggling to understand the world
She is a voice without an echo

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