let them count you absent
as though midnight carried shame,
as though a different heartbeat
deserved a different name.
They gathered beneath familiar roofs,
counting obedience as love,
measuring worth by agreement,
mistaking silence for peace.
Rejection arrived without warning,
not as thunder,
but as empty chairs,
unanswered calls,
and doors that remembered every face but mine.
Pain became a crossroads.
One path begged for approval,
another whispered,
“Walk.”
So I walked.
Not because solitude felt sweeter,
but because a soul cannot bloom
while forever apologizing
for the soil it grows from.
The black sheep learns
that every “no” from the crowd
can become a “yes”
to a forgotten calling.
Focus becomes sacred.
Every hour rescued from proving oneself
is planted into skill.
Every ounce of energy once spent chasing acceptance
becomes strength.
Every boundary raised with trembling hands
becomes another brick
beneath tomorrow's foundation.
Not every family is a chain.
Some are shelter.
Some are wind beneath weary wings.
Yet when love demands the burial of your purpose,
distance becomes wisdom,
not rebellion.
The compass does not argue with the storm.
It simply keeps pointing north.
So let them count you absent.
Count your discipline.
Count your quiet mornings.
Count your books, your prayers, your failures, your victories.
Count the dreams that finally breathe
because you stopped feeding every distraction.
History rarely remembers
the sheep that never left the flock.
It remembers the one
who crossed unfamiliar valleys,
endured lonely winters,
and returned carrying a harvest
no one believed could grow.
If being the black sheep
means choosing purpose over performance,
truth over applause,
growth over approval,
then may the wool remain dark,
for stars themselves
are only noticed
because they refuse
to become the sky.
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