Unconventional

I used to think
That anyone doing anything odd was odd.
In packaged boxes,
I tucked my curiosity away,
Bowing low to the scripts laid out,
A mastered routine.
But now,
The hinges creak,
Split loose,
And I'm opening,
Bending like a willow.
Unleashing against the tide,
I confront their baffled gaze,
Those gatekeepers of normalcy,
Shrouded in their own shackles.

I suddenly realized
That anyone doing anything weird
Wasn't weird at all.
Their souls dance outside the lines,
Unafraid of colors bleeding,
Unafraid of bold brushstrokes
Imprinted on the canvas
Of the mundane.
A jigsaw puzzle of odd pieces,
They flit and they soar,
Magnetic poles oscillating
Towards the land
Of authenticity.
A clarion call for deviance,
A mosaic of mosaic-makers.

And it was the people saying
They were uncanny
That were uncanny.
They long to bind the sunflowers
To cosmic laws,
Threatened by the unruly growth
Of seedlings between their toes.
They weave ropes of conformity,
Suffocating dreams,
Consigning the peculiar
To dusty corners
Of their minds,
While clutching the comfort
Of their gray,
Uniformed existence.

But here,
The rainbows bloom
With audacious vibrance,
Asserting their wistful grace
Within the maelstrom of convention.
I sip beer with the misfits,
The conjurers,
Lantern bearers,
And we toast
To the unraveling
Of our collective tapestry.
It's in the uniqueness where truth emerges,
Raw and pure,
As we stand courageously
On the precipice of our own becoming.