Fatal Difference

She was likeable,

With many friends.

Popular,

Nice,

One who "fitted in".

But she was lonely

In this seemingly

Perfect life of hers,

For she knows she

Was born different

From the rest.

Born to be set apart,

A singular individual.

What it was,

She didn't know,

What makes her special,

A mystery.

Parent ignorant,

Friends unwilling

To admit one such as her

Was in their midst.

They saw this,

This special aura

Around the girl so loved,

They shunned her;

Called her

"Crazy"

"Insane"

"A freak".

She did not notice,

Did not see,

That it was theĀ  way

She did things,

Solved problems,

Fixed things.

Creativity had taken

Root in her,

Borne its flowers,

Bright and for all to

See, but not necessarily

Accept.

Pain found a home

In her gentle soul.

She became

Quiet,

Withdrawn,

Depressed.

A talent for writing

Was what she had;

A side effect of

The creativity in her.

Before she took the plunge,

Down thirty stories,

She cried to the wind,

"Fatal difference,

O, fatal difference,

See what the

Narrow people of this world

Have done!"

When they found her,

Dead on the walkway,

All of them said,

"What a waste!

A girl like that,

So full of promise,

Dead!"

Indeed, what a waste,

For she had once been

Likeable,

Popular,

Nice.

She had once

Had many friends,

Had once "fitted in".

Born with the

Fatal difference;

Meant, by some god,

To set her apart,

To make her special.

To make her appreciated,

A gem among others.

Now, she is dead,

Buried by grieving parents,

Who had never once seen

The special spark in her.

Buried by "friends"

Who hated her

For simply being

What she was born

To be.