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Some verse on my experiences

cmerrick

Hello everyone, i've been writing on and off for nearly 5 years now as a casual hobby, to Various degrees of competance and i do occasionally like to write about how i feel with aspergers and how it affects me. i was going through my stuff and realized i wrote this nearly a whole year ago, never thought to put it up here. for entertainment purposes mostly, but maybe it can help some understand how it feels to have Aspergers. Oh and Critiques are always welcome Laughing

This is my world, so sharp and bright
I could not tell you how it looks
And you might read a hundred books
But you will never share my sight.

They gave me words that might explain
The differences 'tween you and I
Yet I know, when I look to the sky
my life needs no gilded chains.

This is my world, it’s all my own
Like glass tinted a different hue
I will never see the same as you
Just as my life is mine alone.

Different, yes, but far from broken
At heart I am the same as you
My gentle, caring heart is true
While names are but a simple token.

Parents

  • Hey this is exciting! I was about to make a thread regarding poetry and autism, but how nice to see a sticky of it...! Some of your words are absolutely brilliant, I'm so impressed! Moving, honest, considered and genuine: written as only people who live with the nuances of the condition could write them.

    I write a lot of poetry, as I find it helps me to express my thoughts and feelings and also to make sense of, or poke fun at, the world around me that I have often found so difficult, frustrating or confusing.

    I intended to post yesterday, as it was officially National Poetry Day, and this very site featured a poem by Jon Adams which indirectly turned up on my Facebook, shared by an acquaintaince. (It's very good, by the way - if you haven't already seen it).

    But anyway, yes, thankyou for this sticky! Here's my twopenneth, written a few days after my diagnosis, when everything suddenly made sense and fell into place, I guess.

    Spectrum

         It lives
    out there on the street
    in the cold and the rain.
    It lives
    in a box in the corner
    in other people.
    It lives
    in their face
    and on their lips.
    It lives,
    born in a room
    emptied of life.
    Now
    It lurks
    behind every door
    that is unfamiliar,
    like an iceberg waiting.
    It hangs
    around my neck
    in company and
    chokes me with silence.
    It lives
    in every decision
    future and past,
    the devil in the detail.
    It lives
    at the end of the sentence
    in the pause I think
    I am supposed to fill.
    It lives
    in haemorrhaged words
    I cannot control
    or take back.
    It lives
    in the disembodied air
    that accompanies me
    where a friend might go.
    It lives
    in the vacuum between
    your hand and my skin
    after I insist you stop.
    It lives,
    but every day
    we dig its grave
    and bury it with smiles.

Reply

  • Hey this is exciting! I was about to make a thread regarding poetry and autism, but how nice to see a sticky of it...! Some of your words are absolutely brilliant, I'm so impressed! Moving, honest, considered and genuine: written as only people who live with the nuances of the condition could write them.

    I write a lot of poetry, as I find it helps me to express my thoughts and feelings and also to make sense of, or poke fun at, the world around me that I have often found so difficult, frustrating or confusing.

    I intended to post yesterday, as it was officially National Poetry Day, and this very site featured a poem by Jon Adams which indirectly turned up on my Facebook, shared by an acquaintaince. (It's very good, by the way - if you haven't already seen it).

    But anyway, yes, thankyou for this sticky! Here's my twopenneth, written a few days after my diagnosis, when everything suddenly made sense and fell into place, I guess.

    Spectrum

         It lives
    out there on the street
    in the cold and the rain.
    It lives
    in a box in the corner
    in other people.
    It lives
    in their face
    and on their lips.
    It lives,
    born in a room
    emptied of life.
    Now
    It lurks
    behind every door
    that is unfamiliar,
    like an iceberg waiting.
    It hangs
    around my neck
    in company and
    chokes me with silence.
    It lives
    in every decision
    future and past,
    the devil in the detail.
    It lives
    at the end of the sentence
    in the pause I think
    I am supposed to fill.
    It lives
    in haemorrhaged words
    I cannot control
    or take back.
    It lives
    in the disembodied air
    that accompanies me
    where a friend might go.
    It lives
    in the vacuum between
    your hand and my skin
    after I insist you stop.
    It lives,
    but every day
    we dig its grave
    and bury it with smiles.

Children
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