Un-ordinary colours

Here I am, not too tall, not too short. 

My hair's not of a colour that would surprise,

 my eyes no special colour or shape, not my nose, not my lips. 

I dress the way people dress and I talk the way they do too. 

I am, completely normal. 

Ordinary. 

Can there be anything worse than being that? 

Ordinary? 

It's the most hurtful insult there is.

Who would ever wish for such a thing?

 Fools they are, wishing ordinarity is pointless. 

Look around and all you see is people like you, 

you see their flaws,  you must have them as well. 

What good does being normal have? 

Even being normal gives the feeling of misplacement, of loneliness. 

This is inescapable. 

Because I do not wish to be this way, in my mind I am not. 

And for this, no matter the company, I will always feel alone out here,

 but in my mind, though no one is with me, I am never alone, never misplaced,

 because the world around me is my own, 

and it is wonderful. 

I see the children in this park, and I see the colours of their feelings. 

The little boy who's name is Clark, has coloured green in every touch,

 it is not a dark green, nor is it neon, 

it is a light green, a breezy green. 

He's calm inside, the boy named Clark, 

so rare to see in a boy so young. 

The little girl he looks in awe, 

her every touch is neon blue, 

she's sweet and gentle and laughs like song, 

the little boy can see her colour. 

Then there is another boy, a little older, 

not in mind but yes in body, 

he's darker than the kids around, 

his purple colour seems like poison,

 and there he goes to spread such poison to the kid named clark and the girl he watches.

 I do not blame this poor poison spreader, 

he has other colours that he dares not show, 

colours that he holds deep inside of him, waiting to be called by the little blue girl.