I knock it out of the ballpark
by expressing myself with
just a few words.

I write poetry to show my emotions
that I have trouble expressing
through my actions.

I am autistic and my brain is wired differently than yours.
Emotions are like the ocean,
my tides might rise higher than yours.

I have learned how to ride the waves,
like a pro I surf as I ride with pride.

I am a poet not by choice but
by chance because I am an autistic poet and emotions are my tool.

**© 2017 By Amanda Shelton

You say caring
and loving
makes us vulnerable.

Well, I wear my weakness well.
Armor cracked,
I exposed myself.

I would not be
another commodity,
or come to see
all human beings
as separate entities.

So, when they weep
more cracks envelope me.
When their scars
are cut open again
I find myself bleeding
with all my human kin.

I have not perfected
the art of compassion,
but I will never completely master
the art of passing
a stranger in pain
without feeling
part of that sorrow.

Like Vincent did,
I go where the people are.
I see them in
their simple glory
and though I cannot paint
with brushes
I work the white canvass
with my words.

My heart melts.
I cry to myself,
and if you call it a weakness
then you are wearing
the wrong armor.---

Oh, Winter...
She says, “Come hither...”

She is an alluring *****
with her pure and virginal whites,
chaste as an egg.  Mm hmm.

Her flash frosts,
her intricate, fleeting diamonds,
her dew when she warms
drips and drops into ******* spears...
She pulls you in.

She pulls on you,
draws you,
milks you to the core.

She whispers “Come hither...”
in her squalls,
but she leaves only shells.
Such small feathered things,
stiffened and dead,
touched by Winter’s hand.

But she is beautiful,
and you...
You can not help yourself.

to my delight,
   for I was only six months away
      from letting her know
           my dreams and desires,
she asked me
    out of the blue
        to lunch with her
            sit-down, not buffet;
as she proffered
    the offer her eyes
           kind of sparkled
               and she tilted her head
to the left, touched
    her hair... now this
          was unexpected a tad urgent
               as I rewrote  
                 the novel-erased all my fears.
She touched my forearm gently
     and I saw
              sparkles and fireworks
                   and candlelit dinners
as all that
     would utter from
               my mouth agape
                     over and over again
was hells yes....hells yes