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Jaicob Dec 2020
You
I extend my beating heart to you,
fearful of your answer.
I don't know whether you'll take it
Or avoid me like a cancer.

Quoiromantic- that's what I am.
Sure, I may not be the same,
But I want to take a risk.
I want to play love's cruel game.

I may be miles away from you,
But if your feelings were ever true,
We could still attempt to try this out,
A 'test run', if you will, to get rid of doubt.
I feel like taking a chance, pushing out my nervous self toward the edge of danger.
Jaicob Nov 2020
Turning now to a missing person.
Turning, offering a wave.
Turning again, unable to stop.

Wave
Wave
Wave

Here a sniff,
there a twitch.
everywhere another tic.

Stop.
Stop.
Stop.

This is madness.
I'm insane.
Leave me alone.

Go
A-
way

Time keeps marching,
Halted all the same.
Count the seconds.

1
2
3

Waiting, listening.
The screaming halt of time as we know it,
I'm unable to stop moving.

Twitch
Twitch
Twitch

The noises I make annoy others.
I get called out in class for being disruptive.
I can't go on like this.

Not
Any
more.
  Nov 2020 Jaicob
Tasha
I don't have a personality
I have a diagnosis.
I am not 'very- '
I'm 'hyper- '
I'm not 'bad at'
I'm 'exhibiting dysfunction'.
I'm not forgetful
it's time blindness
I'm not clever
it's hyperfixation
I'm not active
it's stimming
I'm not shy
it's anxiety.
I have a cluster of conditions
balled up in my chest
instead of a heart.
I don't have a brain
I have a doctor's hand behind my eyes
navigating me through the world.
I'm empty without my suffering.
Jaicob Nov 2020
"Tick, tick, tick,"
The little watch shouts.
He sits inside my pocket
And awaits me drawing him out.

Tic, tic, tic
It's time for me to rest.
Society and anxiety
Give me too much stress.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
His voice puts me to sleep.
I love his perfect rhythms-
The perfect time he keeps.

Tic, tic, tic
The second I put him away,
The vicious tics come back
I wish they wouldn't stay.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
Directly into my ear.
The only way to stay 'normal'
Is through the rhythm I hear.

Tic, tic, tic
Whenever I am stressed,
The painful tics come back
And cannot be suppressed.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
The second-hand marches on.
Enduring all his hardships,
He's rewound every dawn.

Tic, tic, tic
My fists are bruised and aching.
"What a crazy spaz"
Society's gaze is saying.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
My lovely watch proclaims.
I whisper the rhythm back;
The perfection keeps me sane.

- - -

I need my pocket watch beside me.
Though it may not seem I do.
You simply do not understand
The troubles I'm pushing through.

The terrible sounds and motions
Are so very, very draining.
The worry to always suppress,
Wears out by the day's ending.

My watch sits beside me,
Ticking as I write this
(Ticking so I don't have to),
And reading as a witness.
This poem is about how stress and anxiety often make my tics worse. I always keep a pocket watch with me, however, so I can pull it out and place it near my ear to listen to the perfect ticking noise it makes. This very unceasing rhythm is what keeps me from having a breakdown most of the time.
Jaicob Nov 2020
There once was an ordinary girl.
She kept the most beautiful garden.
She tended it often to keep the beds vibrant:
Her flowers were the brightest,
Most eye-catching scarlet.
She hid their Garden from others
Out of fear for what they'd say.
Her Garden is kept secret- It's only for her.

One hot summer day, Mother found the Garden.
Our protagonist was yelled at and forced to stop
Because her parents didn't want her having
A Red Garden.

She tried to stop gardening.
She now hides the faded plants.
She hopes nobody will find them.

She is now writing so she doesn't garden.
The gardener wants to stop
To keep her parents happy, she needs to.

No matter how addicting gardening is,
She has to stop.
No matter how beautiful the red flowers look
Our gardener needs to stop.
She doesn't want to be sent away.

---

So if you see somebody's Red Garden,
Or even the dried, withered bodies of flowers,
Please don't ask them about it.
They'll just lie about their Garden-
explaining it away as clumsiness
Or scratching themselves on something.
This is a free-verse poem that uses metaphorical language to explore a very deep topic which hits close to home for me and potentially others, This poem may be triggering for some. Please know that you aren't alone, and I, myself, am dealing with this terrible addiction. If you need to reach out, or even if you just want a friend, don't hesitate to DM me on Instagram: @darlingdrawingqueen
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