The Philosophical Poetry

The Soul's Canvas

autism

  • My Voice

    My Voice

    Find your voice,
    They say.
    I have found my voice.

    They say pretend,
    Misunderstanding,
    Paper cuts on my soul.
    They sting, they bleed.
    This is not fine.

    My voice to you is
    Described as a whisper of a ghost.
    However, to me
    It is like thunder in my mind .

    When told to speak out loud by you,
    There are words that
    I must take from the deepest part of me,
    With every syllable
    Struggling against my throat
    And clawing to be let out.

    On the other hand,
    What you hear seems dry.
    But for me, it feels
    Like fresh wounds.

    But if I have to
    Call out to someone
    In the next room,
    I find myself falling into myself,
    And my voice coming out
    As though it emerged from the dawn of time.
    It leaves me panting, empty,

    Sometimes it sounds
    Like I’m yelling
    A cry in your ears;
    While for me this is an earthquake
    That breaks my soul.
    The effort leaves me gasping, drained.

    Peace is a soft shawl
    Within silence.
    At last,
    My mind breathes.

    In stillness,
    And in mute moments,
    I am complete.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • The Stories of My Tears

    The Stories of My Tears

    Every night, as far back as I could remember,
    I shiver. I cry myself to sleep.
    It was the only way I knew how to fall asleep,
    The only feeling I knew.

    Tears are my friends. Each tear is a story,
    A real life tale with colorful characters,
    And the self I only knew through struggle, pain
    And a mind separate of the body.
    What I knew was not what I did.

    The environment was hell, and the characters lost.
    There was no writer, nor a script.
    It was always impulse, reaction to an escape
    Of a struggle within a struggle.
    There was no time to pause.
    A moment of reset could not be found.

    I do not count sheep, I peeled tears.
    I escaped so far away,
    I lost the captain seat of my body and actions.
    Born autistic, with no diagnosis.
    Literally forced yourself to speak,
    But words don’t come out right.

    Born in a family of migrants,
    Trapped in a civil war.
    Unwelcomed anywhere.
    At home, at school, outside in the neighborhood.
    The only escape is the mind.

    Every obstacle overcome was never good enough.
    Constantly chasing normal.
    And in my mind I know.
    Yes, everyone is constantly chasing normal.
    And we are all tired.

    Can I be me? Can I find me beneath the graffiti?
    Live your life. And I’ll live mine. A dream.
    Can I live my life?
    Mine will always include tears and smiles.
    But know that my voice is mute.

    I am too scared to speak my mind.
    Always beaten whenever I spoke from the heart.
    The soul is the only dialogue. Loud or mute.

    At the end of each day,
    All of the grima from the excessive stimulation,
    A volcano inside is ready to erupt.
    I take a very deep breath,
    To bring light into the volcano, and simply live.

    I escape for a fresh breath of another day.
    The only possible faith, and only choice,
    Is to believe in today, and in tomorrow.

    Living such a life, God can only be found
    In little moments. Not some place far away,
    Nor living in my house.
    I am in his house, and therefore,
    He is in my moments.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.

  • Footprints Erased

    Footprints Erased

    Memories like candles.
    They burn,
    cry hot wax tears,
    then leave a monument.
    All while shining a light,
    on what you choose
    and how you choose,
    to see.

    I can count many tales
    on my hand,
    and many wounds
    on my arms.
    I lay every night
    on a pillow
    of flame and tears.

    I drown inside my head and
    break into pieces of kintsugi
    inside my heart.

    I try to explain,
    but no one listens.
    Born mute,
    learned to speak.
    Born different,
    learned to fit in.
    Born to be me,
    and I learned to be you.
    I can explain,
    But who’s listening?

    Wrongly labeled
    and wrongly judged.
    Back of a hand on lips.
    A sword cuts through my lungs.
    Thoughts hanged.
    Innocence raped.
    Natural gifts shot.
    And all buried.
    No ceremony,
    and no farewell.
    No time to grieve,
    and no time to adapt.
    I’m ok.

    Here’s a mask,
    put it on.
    I am told.
    You are sin.
    Yes I am sin.
    Hide your soul.

    I can count many tales
    on my hand.
    I rest my head,
    on pillow of fire.
    And I drown
    in the waters of my thoughts.
    I love,
    and I hurt.

    Forgive me.
    Footprints erased.

    Filed under: 🜁 Self – tracing the inner landscapes of thought, feeling, and becoming.