Where do all the misfits go?
Where Do All the Misfits Go?
So here's a theory - all the misfits are the aliens from the outer planets , their spaceship crashed into muggles world and they are yet in search of some portal which will lead to their own warm and sunny world where shadows are lighter in colour, where air is thinner and less suffocating , where sun doesn't interrogate , where there is no "why" and no questions on staring too long at empty sky.
Where do all the misfits go?
We line the rooms in quiet rows,
like background chairs, like borrowed air,
like ghosts that learned to pose.
We sit where laughter passes through,
never asked, but always there,
smiling in the proper places,
folding feelings into prayer.
The walls are quieter than they seem —
they hold the words we never say,
every almost, every maybe,
every time we turned away.
Our voices shrink to fit the space,
our edges filed, our colors low,
we master how to take up less
until there’s barely us to show.
But sometimes — in the in-between,
when night leaks softly through the seams,
I swear there’s something in the dark,
a crack inside the skin of things.
A hidden door. A thinner air.
A place behind what we can see.
A world not built on who is loud,
but who we are when we just be.
That’s where all the misfits go.
Where no one flinches when you speak,
where silence isn’t sharp and cold,
where quiet hearts are not called weak.
Where words can land and still be held,
not brushed aside, not turned to noise,
where being soft is not a flaw,
and gentle souls are not destroyed.
They’re warm there — not the blinding kind,
not neon joy, not shouting bright,
that doesn’t vanish overnight.
A sun that doesn’t interrogate.
A home that doesn’t ask you why
you feel too deep, think far too much,
or stare too long at empty sky.
No one sighs when they walk in.
No one says, “You’re hard to know.”
No one treats their heart like clutter.
No one makes them feel too slow.
Maybe that world is paper-thin,
pressed right against this lonely one.
Maybe misfits brush its edge
but never fully step across.
So here we stay — in crowded rooms,
performing fine, performing whole,
while somewhere past the painted walls
our real lives flicker, faint and small.
Where do all the misfits go?
Not missing. Not erased. Just low —
like underground and waiting roots
that learned too well not to outgrow.
And maybe one night, worn and weak,
when pretending finally breaks,
we’ll fall straight through the fragile air
into the place that never fakes.
Where we don’t have to fade to fit.
Where staying hurts a little less.
Where someone hears the way we speak
and calls our quiet home, not mess.
Comments
Post a Comment