It’s easy to take one look at me and assume my life is fine.
Allow me to explain to you how far things are from being sublime.
There is no prescribed medication for my curious affliction.
However, I’d not be me without this quirky, rare condition.
Crowds of people moving, are dizzying, at best.
A mere ten seconds of exposure means I need to take a rest.
I look back upon my life, reminiscing on the years I’ve grown.
I can remember every moment that compliments my syndrome.
It causes me to obsess on things that most folks find mundane.
Chess, fish, and researching anything that has a name.
It keeps me distant from my peers and awkward family.
I’ve witnessed lovers’ falling tears whilst they beg, implore, and plea.
It’s not as if I couldn’t care. If anything, I care too much.
I warn others before getting involved that loving me is dangerous.
I tell people I’m not the same, their response is, “I believe”.
They get the message over time; then they pack their bags and leave.
I understand as best I can, leaving “well-enough” alone,
but; it’s impossible to talk to me when I don’t pick up the phone.
Eye-contact is, what it is: very few and far between.
Looking around helps me keep my focus, it is simply how I glean.
Sounds they do antagonize; which causes senses to overload.
I feign those days as best I can, ‘meltdowns’ relax me after I implode.
Public events are out of the question, there are no concerts I would attend.
Gatherings, for holidays, are nothing more than make-pretend.
I process real-life differently than people care to comprehend;
at times it seems it’s getting worse, too often I wish my world would end.
Sarcasm and irony are two subjects that confuse me.
I know not the difference in the former, while the latter’s meaning eludes me.
There’s few possessions that I hold dear, my life warrants little room for stuff.
A bag, some books, a stick, and hat (the stick’s for walking, not looking tough).
I carry on-and-on each day with aspirations of “normal feelings”.
My heart breaks for those I love when it come to my eccentric routines.
Yes, I feel, I have emotions; written word is how I convey them.
The lucky few who’ve seen them out-loud wish indeed that I repressed them.
Alcohol will numb these symptoms, though it’s not in my best interest.
Words like ‘loathe’ come to mind when I become that man I detest.
I wear my heart out on my sleeve, I wax and wane to my emotions.
You’ll find my mind in the “lost and found” when it comes to said notions.
I’m at war inside myself, the damage done none can see.
It’s my ‘Aspergers’, it’s not a thing, it simply is what makes me…me.…
By: Charles Poore