Words on the spectrum.

We think them easy behind the screen.

Yet when I try to speak their power, I lose all the thoughts in my brain.

The words become twisted, and story bound tight. My dysfunctional powers raging blind.

I can’t communicate what I really want to say. There’s something logged deep in the path, inside my brain.

Frustration boils over and hands to the face. Keeping you from seeing the confused pain on my face.

I’m so tired of trying to explain how I am. I don’t fully understand me, yet the fires stoke the fan.

My name is problem. Trouble abounds.

No one wants me. I’m garbage in the lost and found.

Beautiful and broken, to the very last word.

Beautiful and broken, just a stupid sheep in the herd.

It’s not that I’m unhappy, a point no one will ever get. Instead I’m discontent at what little freedom I have left.

I dedicated myself to healing and being at your side. But then my world was broken. Shattered like glass into my sides. I didn’t mean for it to happen, for my world to suddenly flip. Depression overtook me, no yielding its grip.

I don’t remember who I was going to be, or what fun is anymore. I fear I’m just too shattered, entirely too scorned.

I feel so rejected, all of the damn time. Like the one racecar that’s broken, left sitting on the line. My wheel seized up turning, motor stuck in place. My suspension is all broken and the rust is taking over my face. I no longer take full strength, water is just fine. No one wants to take pride in something so old and worn.

Beautifully broken, or so some like to say. Beautifully broken, by my own hand

Only my verbal blood spilled,

Depression at 3am is the price I pay.

Unsettled sleep with confusions galore. What I wouldn’t give to be back to my old self once more.

A slave to my mind, or that what they say.

Fourty one years and only the people have changed.

I can’t fix what’s wrong inside of me, no matter how hard I try, there’s a problem with my brain.

ITS NOT YOU, ITS THE DEMONS I HAVE INSIDE.

No one will ever understand, at least not fully. What it is like to feel sub-par to others, every single day.

I didn’t ask to be autistic, or have ADHD, to be treated differently than others, or be singled out constantly.

It just happened that I was born this way. Without my consent, I live with it everyday.

If I’m so hard to deal with, why do people keep me around?

As a personal measuring stick, for the success they manifest bouncing me off the ground.

Yet day by day I wake up and cry, the burning tears convince of one more day to try. Each time it gets harder, to open up.

For someone’s always ready to smash the half filled cup.

Beautifully broken, weird and retard are my names. Labels other people have given for the role I’m expected to play.

I often wonder what peace is like, to be left alone. Just a piece of land to farm, clean food and a cozy, safe home.