poem

450: The voice of my tears

| Aspergers Girls

I have been struggling with issues of the heart, both physical and spiritual. I have been to the emergency room five times and hospitalized for five days. I am still in a state of limbo, waiting to hear back about an appointment with the specialist. In time, I will collect my thoughts, and share more of this ordeal, one of the darkest nights of my soul. For now, I am leaking out bits of my own truisms. Here I have collected a few that have come through the echo of my heart ache. Much love to you. May you know I know your suffering and celebrate the life and light that is you.

I am tired of being misunderstood, seen and then unseen. I don’t know how to walk in this world. I don’t know how to be. Every effort is squashed. When I jump, I jump too far. When I reach, I reach too far. I don’t know how to stop, what I never knew how to start. It seems the only thing I know how to do in this crazy life is fall, to cry, to crumble, to be absolutely demolished despite my efforts, and to then pick myself back up and carry on. Nothing is simple anymore, and never was, and I long for that faraway place beyond complexity, where my mind is still, the ocean my very soul, carrying me in union cross the waters of tears.

*

Do you ever feel like your life is stuck in the second to the last chapter of a novel? You have reached the climax, emotions are on overdrive; you are about to unravel and discover all the truths that came before the foreshadowing, to behold your destiny, and at last reach your conclusion—the hero’s quest complete. When BANG, all the pages are torn out, the words blown away, and you are left hovelled in a puddle of nothing, wondering what happened to your story?

*

I am tired of people loving the parts of me they like, the parts that reflect them, the parts that bring them this self-created false comfort. I want to be loved in fullness, to a degree that has been lost in this world of dictated dangers and frailties. I want to be upheld for my goodness time and time again; not repeatedly told how I should mold and conform for another. I’m so busy trying to understand the complexities of bending for everyone into a shape they need in order to be recognized as worthy, that I get lost in my own self, searching for the light I was born with, a light I want to shine, at all costs, despite the blinding stares from the opposition. Cruel world, stop trying to make me into what suits you and criticizing me for what doesn’t. I have no limitations beyond the reflections pounced upon me.

*

I refuse to be happy when I am not. Covering up what we are in the moment is the cause of the destruction of this world. So much fear of being and feeling the uncomfortable. We have been taught to avoid with all cost the inevitable state of sadness. Sadness is okay. It isn’t scary. It isn’t wrong; and it’s not meant to be celebrated or snuffed out of existence. It just is. This place we call home could be marvelously better, if we each just embraced ourselves as is, in the illusion of flaws and failures; and like the emotion of sadness, if we just let ourselves be at a level state, beyond good and bad, right and wrong, then the whole of us would be free.

*

I love and respect myself in all my emotional states. None is better or worse than the other. All is a sea of me, intermingled and mixed; none is in and of itself, able to be extracted, labeled and classified. Each is a part of the magnificent whole of “We Are.” Each to be celebrated in their unity; reached in their effort; touched for being.

*

And she cried out, “Open your eyes and see, awake to the truth of you;” the only problem being that she no longer existed to convince them that their eyes were closed, no longer desired to point out the illusion of distraction, of trickery, of falsehood; all that she was in totality only wished to be free and wild and open; only the others, the ones with the imaginary views, they trapped her in their ways, making her believe she was the one forever asleep.

*

People aren’t blind. They are satisfied with the view. They forget what rests beyond the horizon. They forget that the eyes can’t cry for what the soul can’t see.

*

I loved you ’till the hollowed part of me emerged, and I saw myself emptied; in recognition of this absence, I wept for my return, only to find that you had filled the last of me; and all that remained was this broken shell of the girl I once was. I stand now, a woman formed in her dignity and gratitude, a woman thankful for whatever life was bled out of her; for in the weeping of red I was torn back into whom I had always been—the strength turned two-fold from what was lost and again found–a warrior rebirthed into existence.

*

Starvation and deprivation are two different things. One can be starved and not recognize the hunger, the pangs masked by preoccupation, but once one recognizes deprivation, a dying thirst erupts that cannot be quenched nor ignored. With starvation the soul slowly withers in unknown solitude. In deprivation the spirit calls out to be filled, to be watered, to have the life waters returned. I have often been starved for love but it was not until I awakened to my own deprivation that I knew what was missing.

(These are all thoughts I have had this morning)

442: deep within myself

| Aspergers Girls

I want to please you. I want to be ‘normal.’ I want to come out of my shell and fit in. I want you to see me in all my glory and love me in my completion. I want to be all you ever wanted and needed.

I hear, from deep within myself.

I want to dance like no one is watching. Believe no one is watching, and spin and spin without a care in the world. I want to be free. Open to all without fear of over-exposure.

I cry, from deep within myself.

Why is it that my existence seems so different and locked up? A prisoner without a key? Why must I continue to pace, one corner to the next, chiseling away at invisible barriers?

I pound, from deep within myself.

I am tired of waking up to me. This sameness unaltered in every way—still tired. Still scared. Still this child who was dropped down into a misty nowhere.

I plead, from deep within myself.

I hate it here, inside this me. When the walls close in, and the voices of unreason come, the mind cycling through unwanted thoughts, over and over, some washing machine gone haywire, off-balance, loud, uncomfortable rocking.

I bang, from deep within myself.

I should know better by now, the world tells me so. The world dictates my wellness. How to be. What to say. Where to go. Whom to turn to. What to run away from. Bombarding me with their fragmented answers they hold as truths.

I watch, from deep within myself.

Back and forth the dreams go. One day full. The next moment empty. Unbridled towering emotions surging through me. An ocean, a river—the continual rapids of intake. Equilibrium broken. Eternally walking on the high wire above the crashing falls.

I breathe, from deep within myself.

Where am I today? Where did I go? I feel the eyes of judgment. Daunting glares they are. Again? Again? Again? Can she not learn? Can she not break her pattern? Hasn’t she had enough of this self she proclaims?

I wither, from deep within myself.

Tethered to the billion ideas lingering. A graveyard alive of circumstantial evidence. Dug up. Exposed to the rotted bone. And still empty solutions. A ghost alive, drifting away, as the shell collapses beneath the weight of the world.

I separate, from deep within myself.

Hold me, I proclaim. Touch me. I shout out. Not wanting to be moved in a human way. Not wanting the flesh. But what is beyond the flesh. The richness of soul to penetrate mine and make me into the woman less lost and lonely.

I shiver, from deep within myself.

Alone I am in this dance of mind. Brilliantly bright. Brilliantly kind. Tender. Deep. An open book turned asunder. The worn spine split upward into the heaven’s tears. Angel wings tarnished, bent, left for good.

I wait, from deep within myself.

Save me. Oh, someone, I do not know. Save me from my bitter-torn vision of life. This someone who was not made for this place of earth, this uproar of fanatical placating, this constant course of soothing gone wrong.

I stagger, from deep within myself.

Broken, I am, I speak. From the highest peak within. Standing on the ledge of tomorrow. Leaping into the unknown. Free fall. Tumbling into the newest unwanted.

I land, from deep within myself.

And here I am again. The same swollen woman filled with the forgotten pieces of beauty. Shattered and made whole in the misery of my making. Here I am again, swinging from the stars of my forgotten soul.

I shine, from deep within myself.

440: Angel Tears

| Aspergers Girls

There is an invisibleness that comes with being me. It is unfamiliar and familiar at the same time, each time rising in me somewhat reformed, yet, still the same.

I am that I am, and then I am not. I am this woman, and I am this man-woman combined beneath. I am the sun and the land, the air that I take in, and the waste I eliminate, through various means: my breath, my being, the cocoon I will once be.

As in time rewinding and returning me to the state of unreason, where logic is dismissed and gently slides out the regions of the dissipating mind. And here I shall be the cocoon erased, the beginning point and the end, as one, withered-not in my shell of fragility exposed, but open to the region beyond the space that once played host to the shadowed cage of self.

I see this. I know this. I see that there is not time, there is not space, there is nothing but what the imaginary state of being creates. And in this I wobble some, in this reckoning of something I cannot feasibly grasp, but that still continues to trickle through my outstretched fingers—as water to the thirsty—absorbed, understood, drifting and disappearing again.

I am what I am, and yet I am not. And for any man to see this, to really see this, is to feel lost and isolated at the start, and still very much alive in a world of spinning chaos. To see this, is to behold all the answers and construct all the abstract causeways, and in the same seeing to know that all paths lead to none other than the original place of standing.

I am this grand inventor seeping of potentiality and ideas, with no place to release, less I return to the place of exact thought again—the chasing of tail, spinner of tales, in one. I am circular in my meanderings, forced by my uninterrupted inhibition to want to glide out of this discomfort onto the ice of discovery, only to discover the waters have broken open, and I am once more drowning in a place of illusion, unfounded in appearance and ruptured of all substantial reality.

It is eruption, in the sense I can detect the elements of my own self fading into obliviousness of juxtaposed thoughts. How I be such an explosive touch of truth, and still bathe in denial of the actualities.

I am. I am. I am. I try to decipher these words, and they feel like nuggets, gold nuggets, in my mouth. I chew and they are pebbles. I cough and they spurt out into the world in which I know nothing of. I am here and I am not, and from where I be, I watch as the doorman and the moving pictures transport within and without, following the opening and closing of the door. No leader, only the revolving avenue exposed, erased, exposed, erased…stepping through a labyrinth of uncertainty, and certain dismissal of what is.

How to live in such a constant state of recognition, and to believe in anything as subtle as hope, eludes the part that hides. And, still, she waits, this fire-driven wand of desire, pleading and placating to the eternity to expand, as the womb rewound, to suck her in, some warship turned peaceful, the latches speared open forever, her essence returned to the source that dropped her so sparingly to the tumbling tremors of disemboweled earth.

I crumble here in my universe forgotten, in a land that is not mine, is not home, is not where I am meant to be. How I sink in the soils of stench, forging through the forest of the misshapen shadows in search of familiar. My wings, soiled, by the ash of my own tears, drowning in the grey-stone of my weary heart. I am not made for this land of make-believe, where the games rip apart at the tender souls. I am not made for this game at all. And still I am here, in this broken place, searching for the answers, through the kaleidoscope of illusion torn through.

Grandfather’s Poem….The Kings We Think We Are

| Aspergers Girls

grandpa mac

Written 2-22-44 – by Leonard James, Lt. U.S. Army, World War II- in Cairo, Egypt, at age 21 (My Grandpa)

We people of this world aren’t the Kings we think we are.
We think we run this universe. We think we top the par.
We’ve lived our cycles here on Earth and passed on to our son
All the history with our progress, both finished and begun.

We marvel at our present state of livelihood and science.
We look with pride upon ourselves and build up self-reliance.
We’ve founded factories large and massive, beauty in their own.
With pride we view our cities and note how they have grown.

We’ve built our autos, ships and planes, for pleasure they were made.
We’ve harnessed lengthy rivers for the profits that they paid.
We love our homes so well equipped to please and comfort hearts.
We spare no cost in novelties or appetizing tarts.

We’ve clothed ourselves the very best, the styles front in mind.
We rate each class of people by the paths they’ve carved in time.
We’ve done our best to dodge the point of sweating with our hands.
We’ve bartered with the common folk at home and foreign lands.

We educate our children and study hard ourselves.
Each wants to be the master of the thing in which he delves.
We’ve built long level highways that nearly span the globe.
We travel at our leisure, into unknown lands we probe.

We prize these worldly treasures, hold them high in mind.
But have we actually done the things that credit human kind?
You can own the worldly riches, have everything you please,
But having that and that alone, your heart won’t rest in ease.

There is more than that to living, though each will form the whole.
The perfection of our lives will be when we acclaim the goal
That we have built around ourselves, our families and our neighbors
True friendship, love and brotherhood, and dropped our warring sabers.

Wars spring up on left and right, death calls growing boys;
Mangled health and bodies, which every war deploys.
Perfection, you might call it. I shall call it Hell.
I know no other term which describes it quite so well.

Having never found a scheme to terminate our troubles
Without continual squabbling in effervescent bubbles,
Then we haven’t made our goal in life, we haven’t learned to give.
We’ve only learned to grope for fame and never learned to live.