Aspie, Me


Everything is as it should be, but me.
All the world wants to be different;
How I wish they could only see.
See what it is that makes me tick;
the daily trials my mind endures.
That my thought process carries no real benefit;
the rigors of my intellect are never-ending chores.

I have many trains of thought, you see;
They all have many stops and stations.
To you, that may be taken metaphorically
To me, it’s the world, an endless destination.
I don’t say that to many folks (they tend to disagree)
It leads to many agonizing, frantic-conversation.

There is a name for this strange condition.
A name that took me years to find.
Those that share this have their own rendition.
To many, this blight may seem unkind.
To live in a structured isolation
That’s been built by each individual mind.

I’d like to thank Dr Hans Asperger
Whom took the time to identify us.
He sat back as a willing observer
Of several boys deemed mysterious.
More-so they were silent, smart, and clever;
These differences dubbed them, neurodiverse.

This arrangement gives to us a peculiar diposition.
One that lets us see the world in ways that many won’t.
For us Aspies, we have to process many different definitions.
One to live a “normal” life and one to live how others don’t.
No, we are not all the same. Again, each have their own rendition;
One’s a singer, one’s an actor, one’s a writer, and one’s a dolt.

As for me, I’m one that has to think twice before I speak.
I’m the damsel in distress and at the same time I’m the enemy.
I’m the hero of the tale, that upon realization, becomes meek.
I see the colors that come from sound, but, I can’t prove this absurdity.
I learn, obsess, and stay stone cold still, once every day, month, or week.
I’ll also meltdown after too much of people and high pitched frequency.

I’ll tell myself, after some time, after it’s gone away for awhile.
That I’m “normal”, I’m like the rest, and my thoughts are just like “theirs”.
I’ll be able to confine who I am and for a moment I may smile.
It doesn’t last though, my mind is a revolving door, or the Penrose Stairs.
I’ll have to breathe and be away from anything more than docile.
While on those tracks, thought-engines chug along, pulling my despairs.

Just know that I’m not dangerous and I don’t mean to be rude.
I’m locked inside my mind, you see, and I’m constantly expanding.
Making room in an endless place of evanescent pulchritude
Where time stands still and reality is dwarfed by careful handling.
There I go and build my world, spending an infinity of servitude.
So one day my words will be understood as more than nonsensical rambling.

By: Charles Poore