The outcast they say is dangerous,
The one who stands for what he believes,
They whisper behind his back,
But I have heard him and he grieves.
He lost something he loved,
And feels he cannot replace,
So he draws away,
Into a melancholy space.
Away from everyone with his notes,
He weaves his music sadly,
Anxiously, searching his soul,
For something to heal his heart gladly.
So when they whisper about outcasts,
Introduce yourself and be kind,
Listen not, to what everyone does say,
An aching heart, you may find.
Copyright © Lindsay Miller | Year Posted 2005
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