I want to die But I don’t know what that is. No, I don’t just want things to be alright. I’m tired of this world and life. I want to write one more poem. To let the story have an end.
And then leave by myself. Which seems impossible for me, to just let everything go. It took me everything to do everything in this life already. Have it be ok enough to survive. But it never really worked and it never felt alright. So please let the story end.
Tell me where I will be free and where I’ll find my place. A world of freedom with my old friends and feelings. Still there but feeling good and better. Not sick but in my power. In love and able to rest in peace. And fly away.
I can’t find my world in here. Let me go soon now. Write the end chapture here. Let me die, let me go. Let me find my courage to let go of everything, it’s not even working. Ever. Yet it’s all I really know.
I tried before to go. Wasn’t my time. Same right now, still things to wait for. For people, for me. Born suicidal, I hate this world, the life, the constant merciless days and nights.
I wanted euthanasia but in the end it was denied, trying again, reapplied. Intensely long waiting time.
Although I know there’s more to this torturing life. And every chapture had its own little subjects that perfectly align. But now I need to die! I want to, I have to. Let me say goodbye, tell you “This is the end”. For once and for all. In this life for me finally. Goodbye, goodbye.
I am different And have always been Right from the age of four Whether it be my fascination for trains And cement mixers, for some reason Or my peculiar fear of water Or my obsession with the number of pages in a newspaper And last but not the least Playing cricket with myself
I am different And have always been I can't make small talk to save my life Social cues are like Greek and Latin to me I understand sarcasm As much as Voldemort understands love I keep fiddling with my things Pens, papers, clothes, hair etc. My room is as organised As a typical bachelor's den is And the list goes on and on
I am different And have always been Earlier, this always used to bother me And make me feel inferior Especially when people advised me To improve my verbal communication skills And body language However, I have realised now That they could not have been more wrong Because I am autistic And autism is not something that can be cured Rather, it has to be managed And thanks to therapy I have been managing reasonably well For the last five years or so Let me repeat I am different And have always been If you have a problem with that You are welcome to leave
Poem about my being different because of my Asperger's Syndrome, a form of autism. There is a Harry Potter reference.
You know the famous saying All good things come to an end This applies to weekends as well Or in this case, Sundays Because I was forced to work yesterday Due to a massive project Which will keep me occupied For a good three weeks Including two Saturdays Hence, all the more reason To positively dread the start of tomorrow Ah yes, the infamous Monday Something that terrifies me More than climbing Mount Everest Or entering a lion's den Or earning the wrath of a cobra I can go on and on But I think I've made my point Yes, Mondays are bad Especially if you've enjoyed the weekend As much as I did Notwithstanding working on Saturday So, do you want to know What makes tomorrow twice as bad As any other Monday? Firstly, as mentioned earlier I am working on a big project Probably my biggest in the last three years Secondly, while the going has been smooth so far Things are going to get tricky So far, all I have accomplished Is pure research But now, I'll have to start calling people And these are not recruitment calls Which are relatively straightforward On the other hand I am entering pure sales territory Which may not be a big deal For most "normal" people But for someone who is autistic It is a different ballgame altogether In fact, it is like steering a ship Through the Bermuda Triangle And finally The biggest roadblock In my long and treacherous path Is not the candidates Not even the client But my accursed laptop Whose ability to perform under pressure Is even less than that of South Africa In a global cricket tournament
I'm different so you treat me like a child, As if a single misplaced word will drive me wild, Don't you see how that's seen?
One word and suddenly you're a world-class painter But artists aren't limited to a solitary brush. I'm not some unhinged animal waiting to see a trainer, I still have a heart, and feelings I feel you crush. Am I even here to you?
Or am I just a title? A condition? Something to murmur in hushed whispers About why I act the way I do Why I say the things I do But I'm more than that.
I'm not expecting you to be perfect. People speak in weird ways, Act in a manner I can't affect The stress within me stays.
I'm not expecting you to be perfect. I just want you to treat me as a person.
It is irritating beyond belief That you have absolutely no control Over what you can remember And what you can forget Especially if you are autistic I want to remember so many things Essential tasks, passwords, birthdays I want to forget so many things People, mistakes, failures However, Fate works in mysterious ways Most of the time, it so happens That you forget what you want to remember And remember what you want to forget In the past, I have been guilty Of losing a number of things Calculators, earphones, pen drives I have been equally guilty Of forgetting as many things Essential tasks, passwords, important dates However, over the last few years I have made some progress I am much less forgetful Than I used to be Because I make notes in my diary And set up reminders on my phone However, as mentioned before Fate works in mysterious ways Especially if you are autistic Just as I thought That I had established some control Over what I can remember I have started forgetting again And this time, there is no turning back