The Intricate Lattice.

Do not confuse the depth I feel for lack of wit,

Or deem my thoughtful pause means I am ill-equipped.

You see the rapid flush, the tear that seems too soon,

And swiftly label it beneath a childish moon.

But know this truth, before the careless judgments start:

Sensitivity is not a deficit of heart.

It does not mean I’m foolish, simple, or naive;

It means the world arrives, and I profoundly conceive.

My nervous system holds a finely calibrated dial,

Where input floods the mind without reserve or guile.

The background hum you filter, I record and store;

The subtle shift of mood knocks loudly at my door.

I hear the silent echo, feel the shift of air,

My consciousness attuned to burdens others bear.

I am not blunt, nor stupid—I am keenly aware;

My mind processes the signal that you choose to spare.

This heightened sense is not a vulnerability’s stain,

But an imperative to seek the pattern and the grain.

I see the consequence before the action’s birth,

I analyze the hidden cost, the true and heavy worth.

We are the architects of caution, the empathetic core,

The quiet ones who listen for what lays behind the roar.

We are the deep perceivers, built to question why—

We feel the gravity of things that simply rush on by.

So pause before you mock the spirit quick to yield,

Or scoff at senses that cannot be simply healed.

If you would judge the nature that you cannot comprehend,

Go study the design, before you try to mend.

Learn the vast and intricate value of this trait,

And recognize the mind that struggles to abate

The sheer volume of truth, the unfiltered core.

It is not ignorance; it is precisely who I am.

Educate yourself—

Before you judge the sensitivity of the lamb.