Ode
Neuro-wocky
' 'Twas stimming, and the hyperfocus deep Did spin and spiral neurons in the brain; All sensory-rich the thoughts did leap, The executive burnout of autism did reign. "Beware the Sensory Overload, my child! The flashing lights, the buzzing crowd! Beware the Meltdown-bird, and the wild, The ADHD-storm that thunders so loud!" Watch for the AuDHD, my dear neurospicy one! The masking jaws that bite, the social dread! Mindful of the special interest bird, and shun... The hyperactive executive dysfunction spread! He took his weighted blanket into his hand, Long time the stimmy foe he furtively sought. Then rested by the Fidget-tree in the sand, And stood awhile in deep, hyperfocused thought. In executive shift of the auDHD-space he stood, The Sensory Overload, with shifty eyes of flame, Came stimming through the noisy cacophony wood, And masked its features along as it came! One, two! Scooby Dooby Doo! Twenty-three skidoo! The sensory blade went unmasking neuro-wise, And hyper-focus all through and through! The weighted blanket snicker-snack surprise! "And hast thou slain the AuDHD?" had you say? Come into my arms, my stimming neuro-kith boy! O neuro-day! My neuro-spright! Outgrabous day! "Neurodivergent spicey!" he chortled with joy. 'Twas autistic in the synapse, the ADHD troves, All neurodivergent were the quirks and winces. Did zindle and zazzle within the auDHD groves, For the sensory streams overloaded the senses.
By William Fletcher Gilreathabout 12 hours ago in Poets
when the well runs dry
sometimes I think I’ve forgotten how to write, how to spin my pen between my fingers, how to open a book, how to mark a page with a fold in the corner when I must go, somewhere between this pain and the last, somehow between these tears and the past; I feel I’ve lost a part of my wounding, welded soul as I sit and smile and wave while my heart sits heavily upon this nameless, faceless dream I still heave upon my back like a boulder; I’ve carried it across the winding city streets of my life for years and days and hours like Jesus with the Cross, like a spiritual movement, a moral obsession, an intellectual compulsion, like a fierce and silent promise, through the halls of my homes and my schools and all the pretty places I will never step into again, through the hot and toiling dessert whipping with winds, sand in my eyes, burning the soles of my feet with the Sun’s vicious wrath—but I have forgotten how to write; I have lost track now of the sacrifices made, the time spent, my bed laid, my page bent, my stories read but never shared, desperate but not quite prepared; I am never to return again to the passions of my youth except in quick and fleeting moments of exultance and anticipation, in which a rush like that of a rabid fiend comes over my being as I take the pen into my hand, into my body, into my mind, and let the words craft themselves before me, materializing like nothing short of magic in crooked cursive; now it is harder than ever to get there, to live in the mind, for when one gets stuck there, they will never want to get out, I have found, and yet a new question arises in the forefront of my realism rooted mind: how does one get back in? how do I reenter myself into the love I can no longer feel most days, distracted, saddened, anxious, or exhausted with nothing to show for it; I call for help but I feel like I’m drowning and no one truly wants to listen, having heard it all before; how do I live when my love is unreachable, when my scraps fill every trash bag, every can, every orifice of memory and mind, when the Sun in the sky remains so far away? I can grasp at it all day and all night, but the shame gets too much and I feel the people watching me flounder, so I stop; I am maddened by my own futile creations that die before they are born, and I have no Creature to show for them, no regrets in a false cruel Fatherhood, no swaddled baby of an art piece to cradle in my arms and mother, only small pieces of torn up papers and mistakes, only final words before the sentence is finished, only crossed out phrases and scribbled out places, all hopelessly, lovingly derivative, all unintentionally uninteresting, all never grand enough; how do I write when the pain won’t leave? writing after changing is hard, almost as hard as the change itself; it is an endless cycle of remembering who you have been and who you may return to, and the futility of all is called into question, even now, even still; if all I can control is myself, and what I can make of this life, then what choice do I have but to keep penning, even when I am writing myself, perhaps, into my own metaphorical grave; change will come, not only in fiction but in life, not only in good times but in strife, not only in mourning but in light, and in softness, and in worlds of newness and wonder, in moments of anger and blunder, in imperfections galore, in the middle of the score—change will come, and I will be the same me with the same dreams, the same schemes, the same ambition, however hidden, the same shame, however unbidden, and the same passion, however buried, and always written
By angela hepworth3 days ago in Poets
What Defines a Scorpio: The Pinch, the Sting, or the Heart?
What defines a Scorpio? Now that is the question... Yet life beside this mystery is how we learn the lessons; And if you are graced with her presence, it's a blessing, For she's a solitary creature who makes few confessions.
By Dr. George Shannon Ferguson3 days ago in Poets
The Open Latitude
There is a profound difference between a trap and a sanctuary. In a world that constantly demands a performance—where you are expected to carry a specific shield, speak from a flawless script, or meet an overwhelming list of expectations—it takes a massive amount of hidden energy just to keep up the perimeter. It is exhausting to feel like you always have to be a finished hero just to step into the light. When the stakes feel too high, the natural instinct is to pull back, to retreat into the quiet safety of the open road or the distance of a screen, simply to find room to breathe.
By Syl De'Vil9 days ago in Poets
