I pass you on campus near daily, yet now I see you differently.
Once a cute girl I briefly met, now a crush; your sweet face enthralls me.
She hasn’t a clue that I have feelings since we hardly ever speak,
But I see her enough that we could talk; perhaps a few times a week.

The Radio Girl, I sometimes call her; she has a show here on campus.
I’ve not heard it; boy, I want to; her music taste seems just like mine does.
I heard a ton from Instagram; her highlight reels hold fragments.
Her taste in fashion’s killer, too, all her flannels, Docs, and flared pants.

Tempted to find the our chemical potential, I do math and schemes for days.
Conscience says: “I shall do my research and watch from afar to get to know her ways.”
But wait, conscience, that’s kinda weird, and this fact I’m well aware of.
I just… worry I’m too lame to talk to her, or my autism might be a scare-off.

Radio Girl, I hope to pass you again on campus; my grins to you will beam bigger.
I may make myself available and muster up a social vigor.
I can compliment you, mention your show; doesn’t matter what we talk about,
‘Cause this won’t mean a relationship; as time passes, I must actually ask you out.

I miss him.

When he first died, I mostly missed that he was around.
Then, I missed that the family room lost its sound.
I missed his last hugs and his then-quiet voice.
I was left to accept this; no other choice.

I grieved and grieved, eventually coming to terms
with a reality that came to haunt me, so I’d learn,
with nightmares daily, watching him die in new ways,
also loomed darkly o'er me some hours of the day.

What torments me more now, though, is that Dad won't ever,
see who I’ve become; so, so much better,
than the child, the teen, and young adult that he knew,
with his words now all realized, and lessons learned, too.

I could lament this all day, believe me, I’ve tried,
but one single factor stops me—thankfully—every time:
the fact that the living, all sitting around me,
can see it—he can’t—and they’re waiting to see.

I miss him.

I think I'd like to join a frat;
What a big jump that’ll be.
From spending nights in solitude,
To joining a community.

I think I’ll join a co-ed one;
They seem like just my kind.
Greek letters all sorta sound the same,
So the right one’s hard to find.

I'd never live in a frat house,
Like the ones all up Court Street.
No, rather one whose members
Are in dorms, just like me.

I think I'd like to join a frat;
What a huge leap that'll be.
From sitting alone in my dorm,
To lounging, laughs, parties.

There's one this one girl told me of;
It seems quite promising.
I missed the rush, though; **** me, then;
Did I blow my chances in?

I'll find someone—no, contact them;
Yes, just text the frat’s Insta soon.
I'm desperate, I must admit
to belong & feel included.

I am the forest;
I am the trees;
I am the soft
and gentle breeze.

I am a rock;
I am the bugs;
I am the hawk,
The swan, the slug.

A dream takes shape in the head of the genius.
One so grand, complex; sure to save the world this time.
“But what good is intelligence if it’s never put to good use?”
He feels his efforts prove useless, and frustration perpetuates the cycle.

Pondering all one can possibly conceive,
The tormented philosopher corners himself with his own mind.
Mauling his motivation, crippling his capabilities,
He lies frozen in his bed, the world outside turning without him.

“What is a friend?” “When will I be at peace?”
“Am I too intelligent, or not smart enough?”
Called nothing but a smart one his whole life,
But he could feel no closer to the fool.

IQ of 132, but a poor grip of numbers.
Supercomputer in his head, but its uses elementary.
Master of mental gymnastics, but each performance ends in injury.
Skill range enormous, but so terribly incompetent in each, it seems.

The top 2% of minds; among the loneliest of titles,
With so few others around to share it.
He is bound to never be fully understood by most,
And condemned to never comprehend the few who sit higher.

Sitting is inaction, and prompts others’ inquisition,
But with a mind so quick, burnout is imminent.
The mind starts its engine; quickly after, begins to redline,
Running at thousands of revolutions, yet going nowhere, running his tires raw.

One part of his mind sees no point in partaking in the things others do:
Bars, campfires, slow dancing to sweet songs; they all seem foolish.
His writing, thinking, and academia feel most preferred,
Yet another part knows they prove lonely and sterile in comparison.

A gift to see the details and complexity of reality,
Yet an inability to see and experience the simple.
He feels push and pull; rushing, urgency, yet still and sedentary.
This very poem consists just of contradiction.

He takes a seat once more,
Perched within his heavenly ivory tower.
Blessed by his privilege, cursed by his complacency.
His intelligence is most advantageous, his compulsions most bothersome.

I am a medley of everything which has been brought before me,
Presented unrestricted, unbound

I eagerly await another day of attempting to meet new people.
Students amble through our campus, up and down the hill,
Listening to music, staring at the ground, or caught up in their head,
Past a new potential friend: me.

I’ve got my friends, ones of the highest quality,
In the city, just half an hour north of me.
I don’t see them much, though, and I have no way to leave.
We can’t speak much, either; they’ve got jobs and loves and lives.

So, to maximize my social potential, I put myself to work.
I’ve mastered the art and science alike of socializing;
“Use this register”; “smile at this distance”; “speak to listen, don’t wait to talk”.
Studying it all extensively to figure out what’s best.

They’re everywhere, I hear, in the dozens, maybe hundreds.
Folks just like me: trying to overcome the awkward and build a bond.
So where are they all, and why do my paintings remain unseen?
Why do my endless chemistry attempts produce no reaction?

Well, a girl said “hello” in the stairwell as I headed for my dorm.
She smiled, seeming to be one of few to acknowledge my attempts.
Just a friendly gesture, sure, yet I think of it often, her unaware of its value.
I cross paths with many daily, yet I’ve seen no interaction like it since.

I let my confidence carry me toward new opportunities and situations I desire,
Yet, whenever I go to approach them, something nags at me.
A hand that pulls me back; a wall that stops me in my tracks.
It’s Anxiety, and he’s back, worse than ever.

Within this conundrum lies a great irony; a twist that tears at my conscience.
The closer I get to making friends, the tighter Anxiety’s grasp grips me.
“No, what if your words are taken wrong?”. “The bond won’t last.” “...But your eating…”
The reward, even if achieved, seems not to be without caveats, he claims.

He’s right; at a distance, I am safe; nobody can see me struggle to eat,
Yet this sentences me to suffer the animosity of my esophagus in solitude.
I am shielded from criticism, watchful eyes, and the projections of my mind,
Yet I am my most isolated in the most social of the places I’ve ever lived.

So, I eagerly await that new day of attempting to meet new people.
Fellow loners who walk ‘cross pathways, through buildings, and to their dorms.
Cradling their digital safety net in-hand, perhaps fearing what I fear,
Past their new potential friend.