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Poetry thread

Lotus

I quite like writing poetry and so I thought I'd start a thread - please post your poems here. The first one I want to share is one I posted on another thread recently, about autistic people being typecast.

It's called "I don't wanna be typecast"

I don't wanna be typecast, I'm not a Tinpot

Unimportant, inferior or worthless, I'm not.

I'm not a savant, no genius IQ

But I'm not stupid, I can learn stuff too.

Don't think there is no emotion there

I have empathy, consideration and care

I don't wanna be typecast, no matter what we do

We're all individuals, I'm me and you're you

Parents

  • Perfection.

    Surely nothing, but a road with no end.

    Something worth finding, the roads have some bends.

    i hate to type words, if I am constantly rereading.

    fleeting like birds, rip out the seedling.

    The feeling is unpleasant, I have to give it more thought.

    look up at the moon’s crescent, perhaps perfection I’ve caught?

    no, there’s more to find, there has to be more.

    It’s the way I sit and unwind, contact the concrete floor.

    it’s cold, and uncomfortable, but this is the price to pay.

    Clean the spotty spectacles, rinse off the day.

    as I lay in my bed, to try and get some deep sleep.

    the anger makes me bright red, and I don’t get a peep.

    how can I find the meaning, when it’s new every day?

    to loved ones I am leaning, something I hate to say.

    admit, speak, and let yourself be heard.

    I’ve never been weak, to me it’s absurd.

    the banging the clatter, it must be a sign.

    and the constant chatter, why must it rhyme.

    i hate the knowledge that I was born with a curse.

    but only I acknowledge, true depth to the word.

    i need to rest, so I’m signing off now.

    i tried my best, i’ll find it somehow.

Reply

  • Perfection.

    Surely nothing, but a road with no end.

    Something worth finding, the roads have some bends.

    i hate to type words, if I am constantly rereading.

    fleeting like birds, rip out the seedling.

    The feeling is unpleasant, I have to give it more thought.

    look up at the moon’s crescent, perhaps perfection I’ve caught?

    no, there’s more to find, there has to be more.

    It’s the way I sit and unwind, contact the concrete floor.

    it’s cold, and uncomfortable, but this is the price to pay.

    Clean the spotty spectacles, rinse off the day.

    as I lay in my bed, to try and get some deep sleep.

    the anger makes me bright red, and I don’t get a peep.

    how can I find the meaning, when it’s new every day?

    to loved ones I am leaning, something I hate to say.

    admit, speak, and let yourself be heard.

    I’ve never been weak, to me it’s absurd.

    the banging the clatter, it must be a sign.

    and the constant chatter, why must it rhyme.

    i hate the knowledge that I was born with a curse.

    but only I acknowledge, true depth to the word.

    i need to rest, so I’m signing off now.

    i tried my best, i’ll find it somehow.

Children
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