WWW.

Before I get to the poetry, I’d like to share an assignment I had for my college spring semester: interviewing someone in my field to learn about the field and how to succeed in it. Of course, I had to many people to choose from, so I picked on that I’ve loved for a long time…

“For this assignment, I chose to interview a fellow WordPress blogger and writer friend of mine, Kindra Austin. To start, she introduced herself and talked about her upbringing. I asked her to name some writers that were an influence from a young age, and she named quite a few. Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allen Poe, Virginia Woolf, and Emily Dickinson were some of those that inspired her, and it was Plath who “incited her love affair with confessional poetry”. We then talked about her books, Magpie in August and Constant Muses. Magpie began as a diary about the relationship between her mother and over the course of a year or so expanded to encompass other family members. Her mother died in October of last year, and since she’d been working on a collection of poems and prose since the release of Magpie, she included more writing dedicated to her mother and dedicated Constant Muses to her. In addition to talking about her writing process, which includes her beloved cat and photographs of herself, her sister, her mother, and daughter, we also went over the literary collectives she’s a member of. As writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar, she has come to know “savagely talented individuals who inspire me to challenge myself”. Most importantly, we talked about making it as a writer. She even gave me tips, detailing dedication, experimentation with different forms, building relationships, and sharing knowledge and experience. Finally, she named some of her favorite writers (I happened to be one!).

While some of what Kindra and I discussed was already known to me, I learned a great deal about what it takes to become a published writer. Kindra is extremely informed and a passionate human being, and it’s not hard to see why she’s so successful. I felt extremely honored to hear her views on our profession, and touched by her energy. This interview didn’t necessarily alter my plans; publishing my own poetry collection is still the main goal, but insight from someone who’s actually done it is quite invaluable. I feel encouraged to try different forms of poetry, and continuing to not be deterred by rejection letters.” 

Kindra has always struck me as an incredible writer who combines a warrior’s passion with a mother’s grace. Some of her recent poems reflecting on her childhood inspired me to write this (and no, I don’t do her work justice, but…)

My high school years were short on sweethearts

Just like middle school

Pre-school

None, actually

I was never the romantic soul

I’d console emptiness with full pages

WWW’s leading to poems and paragraphs

She was the only girl (*woman) I actually cared about

Because she wrote about the things I felt

Manipulation, inner strength, being a warrior

In spite of everything that has been done

And would eventually take place

I found consolation in poetry and prose

That stuck with you, despite the woes

Thrown to the wolves, no real father

In and out of your life as the alcohol

Drained from bottles upon bottles

You discovered what drugs were, even touched

Yet you never took part, and found offense

In the things that kept you from sleeping

And kept breakfast short, dinner shorter

And summer’s in hundred degree heat

Taught you to create your own destiny

Be your best self, your only self

I learned that here, first, and it’s because

Of them, that I found words to come to me too

I could write just like her, I could convey

Just like her

I never thought I’d be as accomplished

But if I could find my real self

Then the journey would have been worth it

Here I Go,Once Again

There’s a time

When I sit down

Stop writing

I look at the cuts

On my wrist

Razorblade cuts

On my neck

And staring at my words

Wondering why

I do this

Why I tell you

What only god knows

Breathing slowly

Despite rapid heartbeats

Why I love her

Or hate her

It depends on the name

Why I struggle with you

Then hit it off

With them

Or why I even bother

Telling you

Where I’m going

We’re all going

To the same place

When we die

Maybe it’s because

I’m not good

At anything else

Or because writers

Get girls

Or money

(sometimes neither)

Maybe I just like

Listening to myself talk

Or maybe it’s something else

Suddenly I remember

Who’s reading this

And I pick up my pen

Once again

The Last Motion Of My Aspergian Tragedy

Long after the sun has gone down

and eyes have fallen to asleep

do I walk alone in my home

and my thoughts begin to creep

up the walls

down my spine

in and out this mind

that’s always thinking of the next rhyme

I open the door, and feel the midnight breeze

smell of crabs and shellfish, a salty sea

in my nostrils

and sitting down on cracked concrete steps

I let it all out

these steps saw windows shattered one Fourth of July

these steps saw a nest of baby robins go goodbye

these steps saw my brother taken away

these steps saw my mother betrayed day after day

these steps rarely saw me as a young boy

lost in Chronicles of Narnia, and Thomas toys

and growing older, I found a knack

for filling rooms with wooden railway track

and summer’s went by, without a care

of what I would become, or where I might go

just let me grab my gloves and boots and play

all afternoon in winter snow

but when I turned thirteen

my life become hell, and a fever dream

plagued me night and day

not knowing who I was

and why I might say things that really hurt

it was honesty to me, I knew nothing else

I didn’t care if others felt bad

I was a mess, a living tragedy

until one night something moved inside of me

a desire to be heard

a desire to be known

a desire to create something on my own

afraid to try something new, I wrote slowly at first

and terribly, at that

it was a bunch of seldom used words and crap

because I didn’t know how to listen to my soul

I didn’t know how to play my role

and silence turned to rage

at the sight of what I become

new diagnosis, but same fears

and newly cried tears

lined the storybook of my life

but then I met you

along with others in the blogosphere

and with tender words, you brought me near

and showed me the way

how to write with passion with poise

and how to speak in quiet whispers

yet cause a great noise

I became a better writer

thanks to you

and I learned more about myself

and I knew that while I may be on the spectrum

and slower than the rest

I was always encouraged by you

to give my best

I am grateful to everyone I’ve met online

because you gave me a second life

and bought me more time

to discover who I really am

you saw the real me,

I just needed to see it myself

you knew the real me,

I needed to take it off the shelf

I wear it proudly, I wear it with honor

this Aspergian label of mine

and regardless of your expectations

I will let it shine

and as I crawled back into bed

the sun’s light arising

I smiled inwardly

these heartbeats, I’d no longer be denying

 

Recollections Of Youthful Corrections And What They Mean Now

 

Say thank you

or please

Don’t forget to use a fork

when eating your broccoli and peas

Why are you tapping your feet

Stop making that sound

Why do you get so quiet

when she comes around

Why aren’t you listening

can’t you hear what I say

You ignore me, constantly

every single day

Why did you fail this test

when you claim to be better than the rest

And why can’t you sleep through the night

there’s something wrong, you’re not right

Why do always want to stay home

only weirdos want to be alone

Devereaux, look at me

your mood swings are driving me crazy

Me, me, me

but not you, you, you

if you paid attention

these symptoms wouldn’t seem new

My body is collateral damage

of a brains hostile takeover

and just seventeen years in

the course is hardly over

Sure I could do drugs

and calm the tension

Sign me up to snort some lines

off a prostitute’s ass

but what example would that be

to others on my path

So I do math

the best I can

and at making friends

I’m just another also-ran

But I write like hell

and on my thoughts you dwell

so that, like me

you can fight the bias and insecurity

that those on the spectrum face

we may be slower

be we’re still running this race

 

To The Bad Things…

Bad things

I knew if I did them

I would get attention

Maybe my parents would listen

Bad things

Feel good at the pinnacle

The high of sex is way above the typical

Nothing like I’ve ever felt, measures up to nothing else

Bad things

Can make you seem like a star

Those aspergian traits seem so far

When its dark and you’re alone in the car and you’ve got

Bad things

On your mind

All the time

You’d probably be jacking off if you weren’t writing this rhyme

Bad things

Become real bad things

When they ruin childhood feelings

When they got you staring up at the ceiling

Wishing for a body that was never yours

And the body that would make her yours

And when I thought I needed more

I needed more

And now trying here

Trying to be more

Than the Bad things

That brought me here

And now I fear

That the Bad things

Will eat me alive

Force me inside

Striping me

Molesting me

Of everything that was mine

Bad things

Always look so good

Double-check yourself

Save your health

Before the verdict’s dealt

An Aspergian’s Thoughts On Cheating

Cheating.

I hate it. It ruins relationships, families, lives, and communities. It blurs the lines of what is real love, and what is imaginary. It teaches that it’s okay to not stand by your word, and it makes commitments seem arbitrary and void..

It makes the words “I do” a choice.

I have a firsthand experience with cheating. My mom…I love her, and I’ve watched my Dad cheat on her time and time again. Women he’s worked with, random text messages, and emotional/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them relationships with just about any woman he sees on the street. I guess it’s where I got the porn addiction from; the idea that women are objects and can be picked up and thrown aside as soon as someone bustier or with a fatter ass struts by. Everyday I see the emotional scars left on her by the abuse, and unfortunately he hasn’t changed. Some of family thinks that he gave her an STD, which led to my Aspergers…I can’t say, since I wasn’t there to witness it, but…

Because of how my Dad has treated my Mom, I’ve been a little hesitant to get into a relationship, because I don’t want to hurt a girl the way my Dad hurt my Mom. I know that sounds crazy, but I’ve feel like that’s the right thing. I know I’m not the same person, and I’ll never be, but it’s that little feeling in the back of my head that pops up every time I think about having a relationship with a girl. “Will I do what he did?” or “I’m not like my dad, I’m not like my dad, I’m not…”. The self doubt is endless, but the possibility of harming someone, to me, would feel much worse.

So, wit that in mind, I wrote this…

Another late shift

Another exhausting highway trip

But I think of you,

and none of it matters

And Trinity

My worst day is transformed by her laughter

I return home

she’s still up

and not one sign of you

I take her by her hand,

and tell her to go to bed

But she refuses,

crossing her arms

Her blue eyes are a sea

of discovery

a compass

to uncertainty

not a word uttered

as she looks back at me

and shakes her head

pointing heavenwards

I walk slowly

up the steps

And time seems too short

for me to gather my thoughts

I see a fire

a roaring, raging fire

that could never be extinguished

How could I have let

these embers grow?

How could these sparks

be unknown?

For so long

I thought we would live on forever

but now I know

that even the most beautiful flame

must die

I hide my eyes,

and sink behind the door

Emotions

destroying, demoralizing,

spawning, startling

I thought we would live on forever

carried on by our teenage sparks

but I bitterly learned what you did

in the dark

 

 

An Aspergian Sheds Some Tears, And Light, On His Personal Abuse Story

Coming down off the high of reaching 100 posts, I’ve decided to share a little personal story for my post tonight. It’s not a poem, because I struggled to think clearly long enough to write anything that made sense. I will probably write a poem later and post that, but not tonight. Tonight, I just want to write.

This happened about eight or nine years ago, when I was ten or eleven years old. I’ve always been protective of my sister, and still am, but at that age I was constantly defending her from my dad. He was abusive, and still is, although more emotionally than  physically. Anyway, he was teaching us some math concepts and my sister was getting them at all. He ignored her, and kept making her do something she clearly didn’t understand. I ignored it at first, remembering the advice my Dad used to give me, which I would learn later to e the worst advice you could give an aspergian:

“Stay in your box”

As I watched my dad continue to distress my sister, I began to feel angry. As I discussed in a post earlier, you know how anger was a problem for me in my childhood. Well, as I saw my sister’s frustration turn to tears, the rage boiled over. I jumped out of my seat and told him to leave her the hell alone. A narcissist as well, he got angry that he was losing control over the situation. Rather than admit his own error, he punished me by sending me to my room.

“Little bitch,” I yelled as loudly as I could. I mean, was I wrong? Probably, especially for calling him a bitch, but I didn’t know how else to describe his behavior towards my sister. I didn’t know what Aspergers or narcissism was, at the time.

What happened next would be a life changer.

I sat in my bed, still fuming about what had happened. I knew in my soul I wasn’t wrong, yet I also knew that calling someone a bitch isn’t exactly the most constructive way to get a point across.

Then it happened.

I don’t really remember what happened, but all I remember is being trapped under my bed as he’s punching me. In the stomach. In the groin. My arms. My legs. I couldn’t stop him, and I couldn’t fight back. I was screaming and crying and everything. I felt less than an animal. I felt worthless. I closed my eyes and just wished that one moment it would be over. I don’t remember what his face looked like, because I was too frightened by the commotion and everything happening to me.

“I’m only going to stop so I don’t hurt you”

That’s when he stopped and left me. I was still shaking and crying. Everything hurt. I had bruises all over, too. Worst yet, I was torn inside. I never thought a parent could turn on a child like that. Did all parents do that? Was it normal? I felt miserable for days, not telling my mom, as she was the only one who wasn’t home. I hated my parents for a long time after that, and my relationship with my dad has been nonexistent ever since.

That remained true until a few months later, when I had my checkup. My doctor noticed that my testicles were more elongated than usual. After some tests, and uncomfortable questions, it turned out that I had suffered a hernia. I told my doctors and my mom that it was from moving some furniture earlier, but only I knew the truth. It was from the abuse of my dad that hurt me, and I didn’t just have an emotional scar. I had a physical one, too. Everything’s better now, and I’ve had no setbacks or flare-ups, but the doctors said that the testicle will always hang lower on one side than the other. The was the worst, most crushing part. I would have to live with this scar, this memory of pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

I would have to live with this for the rest of my life.

(Follow me @marylandpoet if you want to read more of my poetry, and be sure to check out my work at SpillWords.com. Stay tuned for a poetry piece on this traumatic incident.)