I’m pretty glad to be on the spectrum. There’s a sense of home and freedom in the autistic world, and it feels warm when I think about it. However, there are many confusing issues to overcome as an autistic in this weird society. So, today, I’d like to share a lame poem on such matters.
Stamps
Take this ink.
Put a stamp on all things that are good
And you’ll be happy when you spot them again.
Because you’ve taken
Stop being shy
Open up, say something
While you stood and thought
How come you want me to now?
The last time I said something,
You told me it was wrong.
You said no, not that
So I hushed and looked at my hands
And you asked me why.
Didn’t they say
Come on out, we don’t bite
And you saw their candle flicker eyes and you knew
You didn’t want to because
You still scratch at the bandages that prove
They do bite.
Look at your quiet, folded hands
Your fingers that fit better with each other
Than with anybody else’s.
Look at how good they are.
Many times you’ve been told speak up
Stop mumbling
We can’t hear you.
I am speaking up
Can’t you hear me screaming?
Can’t you hear me?
Can’t you--
But they weren’t trying to hear you,
They only knew how to listen with one ear.
Even still
They clutch your face in their black needle claws
And they say look at me
Look at my eyes when I speak to you
But, it stings.
I’m sorry, I’m trying
It stings!
Look at the smooth, linoleum floor
As the adults talk over
“A cure”
“A solution”
A drug.
See how the light on the floor turns to white clouds
gummygunk
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart