What Do We Really See?

the clouds so white, the trees so green
bees make honey, and birds sing
ebbing and flowing I dream
are we truly what we see?
The Tanaga is a Filipino stanzaic form that was originally written in Tagolog which to my ear is one of the more musical of languages. (Kumusta ka? Mabuti salam at) The form dates back to the 16th century and has an oral tradition. The poems are not titled. Each is emotionally charged and asks a question that begs an anwer. This form was found at Kaleidoscope.
stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
syllabic, 7-7-7-7 syllables per line.
rhymed, originally aaaa bbbb cccc etc., modern Tanagas also use aabb ccdd etc or abba cddc etc or any combination rhyme can be used.
composed with the liberal use of metaphor.

Morning Glory

today is tomorrow’s


the circularity

is the amazing

yet the intricate differences

are what make it so intriguing

you may find the same thing

but never the same place

or time

morning glory

becomes evening dread

what will I wake to

if anything, again?

On The Never Ending Love (That Could Be You)



Sunset falls on me again

I feel breaths rise inside

and escape through partially open mouth

sighs of relief

the doors close

they say goodnight


the poet inside springs to life

to someone I’ve always liked

talking to you always feels right

sometimes I don’t know what to say

but you always seem to know the way

what I mean, you’re in my dreams

is that okay?

sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see you, K

eternity seems so far away

until wordplay becomes, dare I say


to what? maybe nothing

maybe years of talk and nothing else

but no matter the occasion

you’re the book I’ve always had

and whenever I’m down

I go to my favorite shelf

pour upon pages of self delight

reading your story makes me alright

and just when I’ve given up

you inspire me to fight

maybe you’re nothing

just a passing fancy of my mind

but you could also be something else

the never ending love of my life



My Blogging Anniversary: Re-living WordPress Users Who Left Something Special

Today marks one year since Creative Writing of a Teenage Aspergian became part of the world wide web. I’ve discovered my voice with you, and have become a bigger voice in the autism community. It wouldn’t have been possible without your support, so as a way of saying thank you, here are the best bits of inspiration I’ve gotten over the last year.



Here’s to a great 2017 and beyond!

This Aspergian’s Rebellion (Inspired By My Painting)


The sea surrounds us

and we confound thus

upon entering the fuss

that is “normal life”

“Follow this deadline” and

“Don’t forget this rule”

I don’t mean to sound like a bitch

but I wasn’t made from the same wool

and I don’t fit

like you think I should

so you cast me out

until I accept you, but I won’t…

I take your four walls and a ceiling

and tear it down with passionate feeling

with others in my heart, and on my mind

others like me, who haven’t yet discovered the lie

The box says that we’re rude, the box says we’re plain mean

but even my favorite poet once said

“All that we see or seem, is a dream within a dream”

So jump back, you ignorant fools

sit back and strap in

cause we’re going to school

I take your fast-paced lifestyle and rend it useless

Because action without reason and logic is useless

I take your expectations

and break their flimsy necks

I’m thinking so differently

that you can’t even begin to ask what’s next

I don’t speak the way you do

and I don’t ask for what you ask

I don’t need an hour lunch break

Give me a job, and I’ll finish the task

Tastes limited, but well honed

and I stay out of trouble

because my favorite hangout is home

I can’t get a girlfriend

but I’m full of confidence

Be anti-“the normal” in America, 2017

and tell me how hard life really is

I’ve got global views, and global goals

with these words I strike down what you think you know

and leave an impact on your soul

Protesting Donald Trump

is solving nothing

put your dirty, damned cardboard sign down

and look at the people we’re becoming

Slow can be good

even a tortoise knows that

so stop demonizing us

and learn the facts

Don’t listen to doctors, nurses,

or scholars

Don’t listen to the government

And the media? Don’t even bother


Poetry Collection Inspired By The Walters Art Museum

Since I won’t be attending WAMTAC tomorrow (I’m really upset by that), I’ve compiled all my poetry that I’ve written there so far. These poems were inspired by the above pictures.

As I sit on the rock

warmed by the midday sun

I think about what I’m leaving behind

“Don’t leave me and Carson!”

I have to!”

“I know what you’ve done.”

I know. But I promise…

I promise you I’ll return under the summer sun.”

“But which one? I can’t bear the thought of being without you.”

“I don’t know. I may be gone but a short time, or it may be long.”

How will I know you’re okay?”

“When the crab of the night sings its song.”

What does that mean,

I don’t understand!”

“There is so little time, I must go

to the place of purple sands.”

“Then…then at least kiss me before you go.”

“You know I can’t do that, Heidi”

“Why not?”

“I have to be focused, hiding.”

I remember holding her head,

one single, golden braid in hand

before I turned my back on her

and departed my land



and pennies for wishes


and dresses for kisses

Nothing but a windmill and church

to our right

So I’ll be under your window later

let’s come back tonight


Looking down the rocky slope

running faithlessly low on hope

I came here with a minuscule dream

yet, here I am, standing in the middle of a heart-warming scene

Running water, trees

a community! My heart cannot believe

that such an ending is possible

to a journey that was so impossible


The despair

is in the emptiness

The pain

is in the liveliness

of the sadness, of child

eternally bound with

mother, as in the womb

they are floating

in a sea of everything

If I could only

reach out and ease their pain

If only there was a potion

for the spell of death

For nothing they ever knew

would ever come true

cut off before

they could see the light


(Author’s Note: I took these pictures during my WAMTAC (Walters Art Museum Teen Art Council) meeting that takes place every Thursday from 4:30 to 6:30pm.Our group leader, Miss Kelly Laughin (top left picture, arms folded) is an incredible teacher, instructor, and friend. I joined by recommendation, and with a belief that this wasn’t for me. That quickly changed. She, along with my fellow artists, made our meetings an open and encouraging environment, regardless of background. Even though I’m not an “artist”, I joined because writing is one of the arts. I didn’t really enjoy being in museums before, but WAMTAC helped broaden my view. Now, I find it fun and exciting. I wasn’t assigned to take pictures, but I felt inspired to write.What better to do after looking at art than creating art?  You can visit Baltimore’s best art museum (in my opinion) Wednesday-Sunday 10 a.m.-5 p.m., and Thursdays 10 a.m.-9 p.m.)


#OcPoWriMo Day Thirty One: Eternal, an Aubade


(Check out my Day Thirty prompt here https://marylandpoetblog.wordpress.com/2016/10/31/ocpowimo-day-thirty-prompt-simplicity-an-onda-mel/)

Yep. I know this is an odd picture to use for a poetry prompt (the part of Call Of Duty: Black Ops III, where the player and Kane (the woman dying) discover the Coalescence facility and the cause of the disaster in Singapore that killed 300,000 people), but as I was playing the game I felt inspired (and deeply saddened) by this scene. Kane is an integral part of the game, being the intelligence behind the operations the player takes part of, and being my favorite character, I always come back to this scene as maybe the best of the entire game. Since it is the final day of #OcPoWriMo, I thought it would be a fun departure from what I’ve been doing.

Kane, I can feel your heartbeat from this side

After so much ignoring the heart, so much  prohibition, you’ll never get the chance to say

No, or yes

Eternally locked away from you, I can only muster up a little “goodbye”


Aubade (dawn song) is a love poem, specifically the parting of lovers at dawn. Conflict between love and responsibility is at the center of this poetic genre.

This genre dates back to 12th century France and is the counterpart to a secular Evensong, Serena or Serenade.. The name Alba comes from the medieval watchman’s cry “alba” announcing the passing of the night and return of day. The early Occitan troubadour poems ended each stanza with the word.

The Alba or Aubade is:

  • a love poem, most often mourning the parting of lovers while extolling the coming day.
  • constructed at the discretion of the poet, length, stanzaic form, meter and or rhyme. although often a smattering of rhyme is present without any particular rhyme scheme.
  • dramatic since it is often dialogue between the parting lovers or coming from a cuckold husband or a watchman’ warning. Sometimes dialogue is silent, expressed in images.