Some poetry.

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Tired

The window encapsulates it perfectly
That pale blue light
And darkened room
Where men cease to exist

The door that looks never open
The curtains pulled slightly
Ruffled almost
That hide a dark reason
Rendered unthinkable
She does not move
She's lost control
Stuck behind tired eyes
That say it all.




Leaf and the Petal.

This perfect place
That transcends existence
Like a branch without a leaf
Like a flower without a petal

Here is where I awake to dream
Where I sleep to forget, and think to feel
Like Oedipus within the Odyssey
Love for Jocasta
One loves not the branch, nor the flower
But the leaf and the petal
That cease to exist within the minds of fools

That light, which from yonder window doth never break
Is light enough for the soul to bear
My love will never calm thy beating heart
As I can fail to live, once, twice, three times.


Well that's torn it.
Like paper meant to be torn.
Rip, and rip, and rip it up again
It's like your face, broken and forlorn.

Jagged edges upon a jagged canvas.
Lifeless eyes notice a bitter pill.
Lifeless mouth tries to speak words unspoken.
It's an unimitable, unavailable skill.

The notes of reason,
Major key.
Grieg's "Peer Gynt"
Flight of the Bumblebee.

Cold coffee.
3am.
Burnt out cigarette;
She's at it again.


We few, we happy few.


-----

When you understand not life
How can you begin to comprehend death?
When you’re stuck in a rut
Will you forget to breathe?

What does 2+2 equal?
What happens when that’s not 4
5 plus 6 plus 7 plus 8
Put your heart upon the floor

Stamp upon it
Mark it twice
Ask yourself
Have you been naughty or nice?

What goes around comes around
Or so they say
Maybe that’s tomorrow
Or maybe it’s today

A plague upon both your houses
When you’re so self-absorbed
How can you begin to comprehend
How other people feel?

I’m just foolish
I’m a character in a Shakespeare play
Maybe tomorrow
Or maybe today

Stay beautiful for me
4 real, 4 ever
How can you begin to comprehend death
Will you forget to breathe?

-----



Incompetent Pandas.
Current mood: adventurous
Category: Writing and Poetry

She's lost control again....

When you understand not life
How can you begin to comprehend death?
When you’re stuck in a rut
Will you forget to breathe?

What does 2+2 equal?
What happens when that’s not 4
5 plus 6 plus 7 plus 8
Put your heart upon the floor

Stamp upon it
Mark it twice
Ask yourself
Have you been naughty or nice?

What goes around comes around
Or so they say
Maybe that’s tomorrow
Or maybe it’s today

A plague upon both your houses
When you’re so self-absorbed
How can you begin to comprehend
How other people feel?

I’m just foolish
I’m a character in a Shakespeare play
Maybe tomorrow
Or maybe today

Stay beautiful for me
4 real, 4 ever
How can you begin to comprehend death
Will you forget to breathe?


-------------------

How can you know what you’ve done wrong
When you’ve never done anything right?
When you’ll happily put up with what’s told to you
Without even putting up a fight

When the world is a strange place
And the place you live insane
You’ll attempt to fit in, and fail
And normality you’ll try to feign

Even though it’s fruitless
Even if it’s hard
You should always try to go on
Until the devil deals your last card

Faust used to mull over life and death
You’ll mull over who is who
When failure isn’t an option
Success is all that’s left to do.

What is it?

Can't see you.

You just don't know.

Neither do I.

Neither does anybody.

You wonder why.

I wonder how.

Maybe there's no answer.

Maybe we all feel this low

Can you tell me?

Still can't see you.

Where did you go?

What did you do.

Wasn't that bad.

Didn't kill anybody.

Maybe next time.

Maybe next week.

Au Revoir.

----

harsh criticism appreciated.

I like the last one.

How you approach each line, the structure of it, very much determines the 'feel' of the piece. for instance "That hide a dark reason" vs. "That hides a dark reason" vs. ",which hides a dark reason" each have a different feel a rhythm. There is no problem with being repetitive, so long as it is achieving the rhythm you want. Same goes for simile. You can do the same thing with rhythm you can do a piece of music: introduce offbeat, deconstruct it, etc.

Poetry is seriously hard, and it gets harder the more clued up you get in some ways. Anybody could write a one decent piece of prose, I don't think the same is true of poetry. It requires you to juggle a million and one different things and somehow sort and sift to whittle down to what is a concise format.

I admire those that can do it effortlessly. They must have some sort of savant ability with words.

It is just a huge head f**k for me. At least when I was younger I had my naivety to lean on. here are some from when I was around 15:

I Have a Layer of Animal Fat on My Face

I have a layer of animal fat on my face,
class distinction in the human race.
Disregards to all those fancy ablutions,
caution labels, and cosmetic factions:

Aloe, yams, burnt orange spread.
Tom, Dick, Harry, and Ned.
Image takers, image makers,
younger women, and good fakers.

If you seek to find me there,
I will not match, I will not dare.
Mountains fall in to the sea,
but do not fall on me.

Composition A

Us, together in a salt cellar.
Crushed by the beckoning of siblings.
We turn and turn our pride away, who’s a teller?
Pinned upon the base the size of two shillings.

They can leave me here alone, or grind us away.
Two things could only stop the pain:
To make union. The biggest never grind away.
Or to weep sorrows—yet no gain.

Our love is alive, in a relative way but it’s sinking,
Time is moving fast, the hours go by anon
Closer and closer we come of it every day. Sinking?
Pinned upon a base. An empty place, no fondly affection.

Perfect

Jingle in the sunshine, jingle in the rain,
There is no face. There is no pain.
Where would you go?
Who would you meet,
where you jingle in the sunshine, jingle in the rain?
Anyone?
-no



You might have noticed I used the technique of shamelessly stealing a few line from a song and incorporating somehow.

Here are some ones a couple of years old. It was really like trying to get blood out of a stone!

Null

Puffy limp unresponsive stuper
Fall void envelop vapid force
Standing on the platform
Crackling muffled noise
Meaningless Emotionless Dead

Nothing—less Endless Jumble
Scramble Struggle Damper
Platform
Haze Neutralise Ground Sap
Release Power Trap

Staring oblivious, bleached motionless
Floating on dull aches, wispy tide

Timeless Lull Expanding Skull
Still will be still

Dark Clouds

Longing for dark clouds
to take me away
The gravy train comes around everyday
Calling me to get on
But my feet are nailed down
and my head throbs and pounds
O why won’t the darkness just stay?

Healing Space

Acres in this healing space.
For I could only dream to be alone
in a place of my own
Free from any intrusions, unknown

No one looking down
I will see you soon. Don’t worry about me
If only that were true
that I have somewhere to escape to

Furniture of the landscape to comfort
Nooks and crannies hide from exposure
Gentile warming, soothing rays
The ducks swim with composure

I’m in the wardrobe hanging up
Can’t hear you. Just a shirt on a hanger,
swaying for hours behind the slats
Rocking as the draft picks up


"Still will be still" is probably the only line I really nailed. It was influenced by the Dylan Thomas economy.

That is some very good poetry.

i like the last one as well one thing i've noticed about AS writers (especially poets, it seems) is that we naturally use a lot of imagery and other sensory-based metaphors which i imagine is because of the way we process sensory information and the level of importance that we attach to sensory information in our lives (for some i think it is a more positive experience than others, who have more distressing sensory issues). i personally have relatively mild sensory integration issues (i don't get overwhelmed as often), but i do experience synesthesia and i find this quality aids my writing--it's like it gives me more to draw from. do you notice this with your own writing? anyway, you definitely have a gift keep writing

oh, and 0 equals true.....your poetry shows real insight as well, so i wouldn't worry so much about how it comes to you. your only concern should be just saying what you have to say, and try not to censure yourself and maybe that will allow for a more relaxed, natural flow that doesn't feel as forced. when you write, concentrate on the message and try not to think about anything else. with practice it will come to you more and more naturally. besides, writing is all about expressing yourself, being creative, and using your imagination to discover who you are through the words that flow out of you. relax and enjoy the experience it's one of the most effective forms of therapy too, if you ask me

I enjoyed that starvingartist.

It never flows. It is really a question of how I think, or rather how I don't think. Yes there is imagery in my poetry but ironically unlike ASD or indeed the vast majority of people I can’t actually form any images or any visual information in my head while conscious. I can't have auditory or any kind of qualitative representation of thought. My thoughts are completely blind, remote, black box thinking if you like. I couldn’t actually tell you how. I bet you don’t believe me. I know it is very atypical, yet to find another person alive with the same problem. I know there is a perception that ASD people may be gifted in visual perception, but I don’t know how true it is, certainly not the case with me.

That doesn’t mean I can’t do visual art, I can a do. But I don’t do it by picturing things in my head, just like I can’t do any task via visual throught.

It is very difficult to describe something really quite simple to the public used to a rich and highly abstracted perception.

Between that and executive dysfunction it really is like trying to get blood out of the stone. It is no different if I a writing factual stuff or doing programming.

Yes I do censor, but I can only do that if I have something to censor.

it's not the best poems in the world but poetry is my favourite hobby

The Signal

A flashing light, a beep, a flicker
An alarm, a signal, a satellite
A spark, an electrical current, a switch
The glowing in your eyes

A lightning bolt, a crash of thunder
A siren, a horn, a bell
A bulb, a surge, a wire
As your body moves closer

Your thoughts, they travel like waves
Tiny, vibrating through the air
Like Morse code, clicks and flashes
Messages through our minds
As we speak, as we touch and know

The feeling so blissful, so wonderful
So crazy, so warm, so explicit
The shock is welcomed, it feels so right
I can't help but feel this connection,
You and I lost in this world together


Critisism welcomed no matter how brutal

It feels comfortable to read these poems.

Haven't written for over ten years until a week ago. Just a little reading. I miss interpret things a bit, but from what i can tell, i feel similar in many ways to most of what I think I understand.

Sure do feel humble.

Why, thank you everyone. I have muchly enjoyed reading everybody's poetry xx