The thought of a café or club
both make my heart rate rise.
Or going to cafés and stores;
even sometimes just outside.

I’m tired of sitting, so lonely,
so sick of staying inside.
So tired of choosing to stare at screens,
but I’m afraid to experience life.

While it seems a good solution,
it just makes me more upset.
I crave to be there, mind devoid of fear;
it seems impossible, nonetheless.

Inside is comfortable, I can’t deny,
but crushing; keeps me up each night.
I could stay inside my cave all day,
‘cause I’m afraid to experience life.

I sit frozen on my floor,
stomach sour and mind awhirl.
My palms and feet are getting sweaty,
fingers pulling at my curls.

So, I study how to take control
of a mind in fight-or-flight.
It will still spiral at outings mentioned,
but I’ll work toward experiencing life.

Perhaps, once, across vast and prosperous lands of abundance, inhabitants of many great civilizations thrived and cared for the earth they called their own. This was the way. Then, though, cloaked in black and filth, the slim faced invaders emerged from their firm ships, this shifted. The new status quo was to comply with theirs. How dare they punish progress? This would have been preferable had the inhabitants of the land had a choice, at least, but they did not. The foreigners knew this, and strategically sickened their people with disease—how could it have been an accident?—***** them and their land, and plunged their prosperity into the dark. As the years passed, only tales of the past, the former nature of this land, were what remained. Forests fell. The ways and the winds changed. Forts flourished. The foreigners’ descendants believed they needed to form a more perfect union on their land, yet one only they could enjoy. Just like those before, these people reshaped the land they claimed was for community and fueled an empire of capital accumulation and individuality. How could we not? As the centuries counted away from that fateful fall, the agenda of ****** the land and its people and reaping the benefits remained, overtaking that of old. The natives made attempts to stop it, and lessons they were taught. How dare they punish progress? Some listened, realizing the natives deserved rights, so the new status quo was to comply and grant them compensation and rights. Molded by its newest wielders as the seats of the world, it was a model to aspire to. This was the way. Now, across vast and prosperous lands, great civilizations live in abundance with all the things they own. Perhaps.

As the noise of the
room grows, and everything
begins to feel ***** and
hot, there you are,
a porcelain, plastic
paradise, waiting patiently
for my swift exit to
conclude within your liminal embrace.
When you’re in public, I
pray you hold no occupants
or invite no others in to
use you for less holy purposes.
Gross. At home, you
remain untouched and pure
as my ultimate space of comfort;
a dark, cool, quiet, temple
of toilet paper, towels, tile, and taps.
Hopefully, your walls bestow upon
my lungs and mind, desperate
for fresh, clean indoor air,
a window, or at the very least
proper ventilation.
Breathe with me.
You are both an ultimate
form of sensory deprivation and
proper stimulation simultaneously;
when each desired, you provide accordingly.
You’re the one place noises cannot penetrate,
nor music I need not to stimulate,
though you play it oft’ in public for the masses.
Your aura generated sublime,
unbound by rules or by time;
how grateful I am to be able to be
able to so easily connect with the
Divine.

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.

Are we free anymore? I’ve asked myself lately,
Sure, it seems so, but a few things are shady,
Well, more than a few; in fact most of our lives
Are controlled and well-governed like dogs kept on lines.

Last week my own neighbor was caught and arrested
For owning plants curing her cancer, depression,
Science speaks truth but the Law doesn’t mind
Their care is your sentence, not the healing inside.

We’re ruled by fear, I’ve come to conclude
It’s limiting consciousness, limiting mood
Forced to pay off all those bills in the mail
Or they’ll haul you away to community jail.

It’s not always this way—look at it like this,
We do have a large sum of freedom as kids,
We can eat, speak, dress, and play how we please
Before the real world arrives, subjugating this ease.

“Get good grades in school, be quiet, and listen,
Better cut the tomfoolery or end up in prison,
Repent all your sins or you can’t go to Heaven”
...Are drilled in our heads by the time we reach seven.

Yes, it is fear; now much clearer to me,
Yet sadly too subtle for the masses to see,
Some of us hope that things will get better,
So we dogs may finally stray from our tether.

Baked goods ready to buy

Awesome flavors

Kitchen

Exciting flavors

Really tasty things

Yummy!

system dysregulation is
uncomfortable to endure. Unfortunately,

life does not wait,
so said a friend to me once,

so I must still go to
class. To get meals. To gatherings. To meetings. To

spaces that sometimes lie
outside my comfort zone,

scaring and dysregulating me further.
Sometimes, they feel unsettling and unnaturally unsafe.

Doubt convinces me of doom;
“this is the end”, “turn back”, “you won’t make it,”

Yet I always come out okay.

Even in fleeting, present moments, amidst the
phlegm, stomach flips and swells of fear,

I persist; it’s part of what compels
me to get to the places again, despite the fact that Nervous

system dysregulation is
uncomfortable to endure. Unfortunately,

life does not wait,
so said a friend to me once,

so I must still go to
class. To get meals. To gatherings. To meetings. To

spaces that sometimes lie
outside my comfort zone,

scaring and dysregulating me further.
Sometimes, they feel unsettling and unnaturally unsafe.

Doubt convinces me of doom;
“this is the end”, “turn back”, “you won’t make it,”

Yet I always come out okay.

Even in fleeting, present moments, amidst the
phlegm, stomach flips and swells of fear,

I persist; it’s part of what compels
me to get to the places again, despite the fact that Nervous

system dysregulation is
uncomfortable to endure. However,

“life does not wait,”
a friend warned me once,

“Well, yes;” I still want to
go to class. To get meals. To gatherings. To meetings. To

spaces, catalysts for anxiety,
spaces that sometimes escape my comfort zone and lie

startling and dysregulating
what becomes my Flesh Prison.

Sometimes, they feel unsettling and unnaturally unsafe, and
Doubt spells doom on the walls of my guts:

“this is the end”, “turn back”, “you won’t make it,” yet
I always emerge from battle unscathed.

It’s part of what compels me to return to
those places, still at war in chains,

Even in fleeting, present moments, amidst the
phlegm, stomach flips and swells of fear,

I persist; it’s part of what compels
me to get to the places again, despite the fact that Nervous

Goodbye to a part of you;
Not all, as we remain entwined.
Decided to stay friends one day,
Which cut off a choking vine.

This vine, we called it romance,
And intimate contact.
We loved parts of one another, but not enough,
And that’s okay, in fact.

I’m proud, friend, that you told me;
I thank you for your trust.
It means we can find someone who we can fully love,
And still hold each other up.

Goodbye to the part of you
That lies open just for me.
Goodbye to a future life and house;
I’ve thrown away my key.

We’ve put away our photos,
Yet treasure the memories.
What we had is over, but not gone;
We honor history, you and me.

You told me if we must ever part,
To first say goodbye.
I will, but will work to never have to,
Because you’re pretty cool, my guy.

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

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.

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 sure am glad I joined a frat,”
I tell my friends and family.
From spending nights in solitude,
To being in community.

I once had dreamed of better bonds
With students at my school,
And now I’ve found some, oh, boy, have I;
My days and soul now oft’ refueled.

Fall me knew what things were best for him,
And so, he sought them out.
Those who I got close with I didn’t expect,
But adore and love learning about.

“I sure am glad I joined a frat,”
I once thought I’d never say.
But it’s true—more than you could know—
And a member I shall always stay.

Last fall, I wished to fulfill greater purpose;
One much grander than I had,
And after hours of serving those both near and far
I've more than found it, and I’m so glad.

Next semester and beyond, I’ll dedicate myself
Far more than what's allowed at this time.
I’ll pledge my time, energy, and maintain my health,
To secure the future of my kind.

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.

Many noises he makes

Always does his job

Can he get you a drink?

He is old and tired

I watch him work

Never disobeys

Ends his daily job

The dinner table.
It is called what it is despite the use for all meals
starts out with breakfast
the kids get their backpacks from the chairs and go to school.

The dinner table.
Come lunchtime, sandwiches
prepared on its rough tired surface
waiting for the children to come home and enjoy them.

The dinner table.
Now comes dinner,
A place of comfort and good thing
where every expressed meal takes place in the American home.

The dinner table.
Wooden, ovoid piece of furniture located in the formal dining room
such a work of art in yet such a pleasant, morsel-resting masterpiece
a family heirloom often overlooked for its uses.

The dining room is where the family can relax at the universal dining counter for mealtime.

The kitchen is where the food is made and prepared. But tonight, we have other meal plans.

The dinner table.
Let us rest our heads upon its surface and say a prayer of thanks
let us praise the Lord for the food he has blessed us with.
Now let’s eat! This takeout looks delicious!

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 get lost in my work.
Hungry again, I note.
The cycle restarts.
Better this time, I hope.

I find some good food,
Making sure to choose carefully,
And snag my water,
An essential, soon, you’ll see.

I avert my gaze—
I fear they’re all eyeing me—
And sit myself down
For a ritual eternity.

Many meals are Hell;
My body a warzone.
What you’ve learned to nurture so
Still hates you to the bone.

I accept this task I must master;
‘Twas not a choice I made.
It’ll stick with me for life;
‘Cause it’s one my genes gave.

The first taste is bliss,
But most bites bring pain quickly.
Size portions correctly;
So tired of feeling sickly.

Pain sears my throat,
So, I chew with vigor.
The swelling is fast;
I pray my water’s quicker.

The drink spells relief,
But every bite’s anxious,
Every swallow torment;
Each pause between captious.

Another meal unfinished; bitter defeat,
The peace remains unreachable.
I craved it so badly, and I was so close,
Now it looks repulsive; uneatable.

I check the scale once more,
So, skinny I remain;
Been mocked and critiqued
For weight, unable to gain.

I am Sisyphus ‘til sated,
The table is my hill,
Sustenance my stone,
And my mind is my will.

I get lost in my work.
Hungry again, I note.
The cycle restarts.
Better this time, I hope.

On days like this, I am reminded of a feeling once foreign to me
A concept I’d only caught from books and from movies.
One that crushes yet contains no mass
That cripples heart and brain alike yet bears no blade.

It is the bitter, biting brutality of winter with no fire nearby to curl up to
Nipping at the heart and leaving it crisp with melancholy.
It is a plague which I seem to have regretfully caught
Despite having recently become so very aware of how to use its cure.

The girl across the hall opens her door and produces a weary, sigh with her exit
Perhaps a plea for an ear to listen or another to exist with.
She passes by my open doorway silently, contradicting herself
Our pleas for a social volley cast together into the blizzard.

I imagine she feels that same apprehension; hesitation
Or perhaps she had something to do.
The simple smile of another among the thousands here
Would be an ember of joy sufficient to set my hearth alight for days.

I crave that warmth like few things I have craved before
So close by, yet more scarce than it’s ever been.
Chatter was once my sun, and I basking endlessly below
How I yearn for summer in this raging storm.

I live a life of privilege;
It’s always been my norm.
A most comfortable existence I have lived,
From the day that I was born.

Had everything I’d ever need,
And all the things I’d want.
One might confuse it for greed,
I never asked; it’s how I was brought up.

All the food, shows, and gaming,
The world had, yet I was bored.
I had infinite satisfaction,
But from this, complacency formed.

So long I knew no else,
Then my views were changed.
Dad drove me through the city
And expanded my viewpoint’s range.

May a warm summer wind soon blow your way,
Wishing you good, luck fortune, and good day,
You now a part of the kingdom of heaven,
What a wonderful place to go and live in.

For there will be all your wildest dreams,
Nothing you thought you would ever believe.
And now that you will finally receive,
The Wonderful Kingdom of Heaven.

May a warm summer wind soon blow your way,
wishing you good, luck fortune, and good day.
You now a part of the Kingdom of Heaven;
what a wonderful place to go on and live in.

For there will be all of your wildest dreams;
nothing you thought you would ever believe.
And now, with that, you will finally receive
the wonderful Kingdom of Heaven.

Well, let’s be meta for a second, here.
This class, I’ve found myself struggling with poems,
so now, I possess a good deal of fear,
I’ve found it preferable to go home.
However, that’s simply just copping out,
and I know well: that’s no way to progress!
If I turn my head at that which I’m fraught, I won’t advance; I’ll regress… and forget.
To this thinking, I give a big “*******”,
in the great name of creativity.
I’m nearly done with this; isn’t that cool?
I’m overcoming this adversity!
See, that wasn’t so bad, was it, now, man?
You thought you couldn’t write sonnets; you can!

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.

Well, I’m done early, let’s write another,
this time a limerick; hope not too tricky.
It’s in iambic pentameter, too.
Is this a limerick? Uh, I think it is.
Well, let’s finish it off and then see.