So yeah… I write poems sometimes. I’ve never really shared them before, apart from occasionally dropping them outside a friend’s door like a proud kitten with a bit of fluff.
I picture myself like Kafka or Emily Dickinson, leaving behind a box of undiscovered poems that will change the world long after I’m buried. But that seems unlikely and I’m impatient – so here they are.
Static
I live between signals,
where words crackle,
half-formed,
and faces blur into static.
They talk about the spectrum
like it’s a rainbow,
but it’s more like lightning,
beautiful and jagged,
tearing through the clouds of “normal.”
I’ve learned to ride the storm,
but some days,
the static drowns me.
I scream in silence,
not to be heard,
but just to prove
I’m still here.
A Room of One’s Own
Solitude isn’t loneliness.
It’s the hum of my thoughts,
a melody too sharp for company.
I build walls out of silence,
soft and warm,
a cocoon where I can finally
breathe.
But they don’t understand.
“You’re too quiet,”
they say.
“Come out, join the world.”
But why?
The world is loud and sharp,
and I am soft-edged,
easily bruised.
I’ve learned to love the quiet,
the absence of eyes
trying to map me.
This room is mine,
and in it,
I am whole.
Relationships Are Like Bridges
They told me relationships
are like bridges—
fragile but strong,
a connection spanning
the unknown.
But what they didn’t tell me
is that my bridge
comes with missing planks,
and sometimes,
I forget how to cross.
I love fiercely,
awkwardly,
clumsily.
But love isn’t always enough
when I can’t find the words,
when I miss the cues,
when I retreat to my corner
and leave them standing
on the other side.
Still, I try.
Each step,
a prayer
that they’ll meet me halfway.
Echoes
They call it masking,
this act of becoming
what they need me to be.
A mirror reflecting their joy,
their laughter,
their normal.
But every mask
leaves an imprint,
a shadow of someone
I never wanted to be.
When I pull it off,
there’s an echo in my chest,
a hollow ache
for the self I buried.
I am tired of mirrors.
I want to be seen—
not reflected,
not corrected—
just seen.
Autumn Walks
I like the crunch of leaves underfoot,
the way the air smells of endings.
Autumn feels like home—
a season that doesn’t ask questions,
that lets you exist
in layers of quiet and cold.
I don’t have to explain myself
to the trees,
to the wind,
to the squirrels chattering
in frantic circles.
They don’t ask why I walk alone,
why my hands flutter
when I’m thinking,
why my face doesn’t smile
when my heart does.
Here, I am enough.
A Love Letter to Silence
Silence,
you are the friend
I never have to explain myself to.
You don’t flinch
at my fidgeting hands,
don’t ask why
I forgot to respond to your text,
don’t fill the air
with words I don’t know
how to return.
In your arms,
I am not broken.
I am not trying.
I am.
And that is enough.
Why I Write Poems About Autism, Love, and Everything in Between
I never set out to write poetry. It wasn’t something I dreamed about or studied in school. Poetry felt intimidating, like walking into a room full of intellectuals who all knew the secret handshake, while I stood in the corner trying not to spill my drink.
But then, life happened—messy, overwhelming life—and I realized I had things to say that didn’t fit neatly into paragraphs or conversations. Autism, love, solitude, longing—they’re hard to pin down in prose. Sometimes they need the space and rhythm of poetry to breathe.
I wrote my first poem in my early twenties, during one of those nights when the world felt too loud and too quiet all at once. I’d just had my heart broken (again), and I was spiraling, replaying every awkward moment, every missed cue. The words came out of me like a flood. They weren’t polished, and they didn’t rhyme, but they were mine. And for the first time, I felt like I’d captured something real.
Now, poetry is how I process the things that feel too big to carry alone. It’s where I go when I’m overwhelmed or longing for connection. It’s my way of turning the chaos into something I can hold.
The Weight of Words
Every word feels like a stone,
heavy, sharp,
balanced on the edge of my tongue.
When I speak,
it’s not a conversation—
it’s an excavation.
Every syllable a labor,
every pause a prayer
that I’ve chosen the right ones.
And still,
I watch them fall,
a pile of rubble at their feet.
They sift through the mess,
trying to find the meaning,
while I stand there,
silent and exhausted,
thinking,
“I should have stayed quiet.”
The Rules Are Made of Glass
They tell me there are rules—
unspoken, invisible,
but real as the air they breathe.
I see them, too.
Not in whispers or winks,
but in fragments,
shattered on the floor
where I trip over them.
Every mistake cuts deeper,
sharp-edged reminders
that I am not built
for this game.
Still, I gather the shards,
turn them over in my hands,
trying to understand their shape.
Trying to build something whole
out of pieces
I was never given.
The Wrong Kind of Fireworks
They love fireworks,
the bright, bursting beauty of them,
the way they fill the night sky
with fleeting joy.
But my fireworks live inside me,
silent and violent,
a chaos no one sees.
They erupt without warning,
a sensory overload of sparks
and sound
and smoke.
I try to explain,
but how do you describe a fire
to someone who only sees the stars?
To Be Understood
I spent years building bridges,
constructing pathways
from my world to theirs.
But every time I crossed,
I found only half-smiles,
half-listening,
half-belief.
“It’s not that bad,” they said.
“You’re just shy,” they said.
“You’re too sensitive,” they said.
So I tore the bridges down.
Why build them
when no one wants to visit?
Now, I live on my island,
alone but not lonely,
waiting for someone who sees the waves
and chooses to swim.
The Noise Beneath the Noise
It’s not the sound itself—
the car horns,
the chatter,
the hum of fluorescent lights.
It’s what hides beneath it,
the layers you don’t hear
until you can’t escape them.
A clock ticking louder than it should,
the crinkle of plastic wrapping in a distant room,
a chair scraping across tile
like nails on a chalkboard.
It all seeps in,
filling my chest like water,
rising,
rising,
until I can’t breathe.
And they ask why I wear headphones.
The Poets Who Taught Me How to Feel
I didn’t grow up reading poetry, but when I discovered it, I fell hard. Sylvia Plath was my first love—the rawness of Ariel, the way she could turn despair into something devastatingly beautiful.
“Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air.” (Lady Lazarus)
That line still gives me chills.
Then there was Pablo Neruda, who taught me how to write about love—not the Hallmark version, but the kind that consumes you, that leaves you wrecked and grateful all at once.
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” (Sonnet XVII)
And Mary Oliver, with her quiet reverence for the world. She made me want to notice things—the way sunlight filters through a curtain, the sound of rain hitting the roof—and to hold those moments like treasures.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?” (The Summer Day)
The Myth of Empathy
They say we lack empathy.
As if I don’t feel everything—
the shift in someone’s voice,
the weight of their sadness,
the way their words curl around silence.
I feel it all,
so much that it drowns me,
so much that I can’t find my own breath
in their ocean of emotion.
And when I can’t respond
the way they expect,
they call me cold.
But I’m not cold—
I’m burning,
trying not to sink.
A Museum of Masks
I’ve spent my life
curating a collection of masks.
The “friendly” one,
with the practiced smile
and rehearsed laugh.
The “professional” one,
with perfect posture
and clipped sentences.
The “invisible” one,
quiet and agreeable,
nodding at all the right moments.
I’ve worn them all,
and still,
they wonder why I’m tired.
No one tells you
that the heaviest burden
is being seen
as someone you’re not.
The Quietest Rebellion
They call me quiet,
but my silence is louder
than their noise.
In my stillness,
I am not shrinking—
I am claiming space.
I am listening,
not to their words,
but to the undercurrent,
the truth they don’t say.
I am watching,
not with judgment,
but with a curiosity
that scares them.
And when I finally speak,
my words are stones,
not pebbles,
crashing into their calm
and rippling outward.
The Space Between Words
I’ve always lived in the spaces between—
between what’s said
and what’s meant,
between the question
and the answer they expect.
It’s a quiet place,
heavy with what I don’t know how to say.
The silence stretches,
fragile as spun glass,
and I see their impatience in the way
their gaze shifts,
their fingers tap.
They fill the gap with words of their own,
like a child covering a crack in the wall
with paint.
But I stay in the space,
because I know
there’s something true in the quiet
that they’re too afraid to hear.
The Architecture of Alone
There’s a difference between alone
and lonely,
but most people don’t know it.
They see an empty room
and think it’s sad.
I see a sanctuary,
walls built by my own hands
to keep the chaos out
and the quiet in.
Inside, I can breathe.
The air doesn’t hum with questions,
the corners don’t echo with expectations.
I arrange the furniture of my mind
just so,
turn the music low,
and let the stillness settle over me
like a blanket.
Loneliness is being surrounded
and unseen.
Alone is the luxury
of being exactly where I belong.
Echoes and Reverberations
I can hear the way they talk about me
when they think I’m not listening—
not cruel, but casual,
like the soft scrape of sandpaper
over my skin.
“Quirky,” they say,
or “hard to read,”
as if I am a language
they never bothered to learn.
They don’t know
that their words linger in the air,
vibrating long after the sound has died.
They don’t know
that I hear their tone,
their hesitation,
more clearly than their meaning.
I carry their echoes,
but I don’t let them shape me.
I am not their misunderstanding—
I am the reverberation of my own truth.
Lines That Live in My Head
Certain poems feel like they were written just for me. I carry their lines with me, repeating them like mantras when the world feels unsteady.
From Rainer Maria Rilke:
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves.”
From Anne Sexton:
“Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.”
From Leonard Cohen:
“There is a crack in everything,
That’s how the light gets in.”
These words are like breadcrumbs, leading me back to myself when I feel lost.
Sensory Symphony
I live in a world turned up too loud.
The sunlight is a floodlight,
the fabric of my shirt is sandpaper,
the hum of the refrigerator
is a symphony I can’t escape.
But then there are the moments
when the world softens,
and the symphony plays in harmony.
The way the rain feels like a blanket of sound,
the rhythm of my own breath in the quiet,
the texture of cool clay between my fingers.
There’s beauty in the overload,
hidden in the crescendos
and the rests.
I am not drowning in it—
I am learning to swim.
Maps Without Compass
Everywhere I go,
it feels like there’s a map
I was supposed to memorize
but never saw.
They move with such ease,
their steps guided by invisible signs
and unspoken rules,
while I stumble,
trying to decode
what’s obvious to everyone else.
“Just follow your instincts,” they say,
not knowing mine point north
when theirs point south.
So I make my own map,
one mistake at a time,
drawing pathways in the dirt
and marking landmarks they’ll never see.
It might not be their way,
but it’s mine,
and it gets me where I need to go.
The Geography of Connection
They tell me relationships are built
on common ground,
but what if my ground is a canyon,
wide and winding,
and theirs is a smooth, flat plain?
I try to build bridges,
but they don’t always hold.
The planks of my honesty
don’t align with their expectations,
and the ropes of my understanding
fray under the weight of their words.
But sometimes,
someone stands on the edge of my canyon
and looks down,
not with fear,
but with curiosity.
And then we’re not building bridges—
we’re climbing,
together,
finding footholds in the rock
and marveling at the view.
The Weight of “Why”
Why do they do what they do?
Why do they laugh at things that hurt
and cry at things that don’t?
Why do they say one thing
and mean another,
layering truth and lies
like paint on a canvas
that makes no sense to me?
I’ve spent years
asking why,
haunted by questions
that circle back on themselves
like a dog chasing its tail.
But now I hold the questions loosely,
letting them drift
like leaves on a stream.
Why do I need to understand them
when I can simply be me?
Why try to solve a puzzle
when I’ve always been the masterpiece?
When I Write Poetry
I write poems when I can’t find the words to explain how I’m feeling. When I’m overwhelmed by love or grief, or when the solitude of an evening feels heavier than usual.
I write after awkward conversations, after heartbreaks, after those moments when I replay everything I said and wonder how I could’ve done it differently. I write when the world feels too big, and I need a small, quiet place to retreat.
Sometimes, I write for other people—to say the things I’m too scared to say out loud. Sometimes, I write just for myself, to make sense of the noise in my head.
The Illusion of Time
Time is elastic,
stretching in all the wrong places.
The hours I spend looking busy—
pacing, rearranging objects on my desk,
staring at a blank screen—
feel endless,
while the minutes I spend doing what matters
slip through my fingers
like grains of sand.
I’ve learned to fake it, though.
To look like I’m moving forward
even when I’m standing still.
Tap the keyboard every so often,
shuffle some papers,
offer a rehearsed nod when someone walks by.
It’s a performance for the world,
a pantomime of productivity
that keeps their questions at bay.
The Family Clock
My family keeps time differently than I do.
Their lives tick along,
measured in achievements and milestones—
degrees earned, promotions won,
weddings, babies, vacations.
My clock moves in fits and starts,
pausing when the weight of it all
feels too much,
racing when I’m caught in the whirl of a special interest,
and stopping altogether
when I can’t see the point of starting.
“You need to stay on track,” they say,
but whose track?
Their path is a straight line.
Mine twists and curves,
doubling back on itself
like a labyrinth.
I try to explain,
but they’re already glancing at their watches,
as if time spent understanding me
is time wasted.
Looking Busy, Feeling Empty
I’ve mastered the art of looking busy.
It’s a skill, really—
knowing how to arrange my face
into an expression of concentration,
keeping my hands moving just enough
to create the illusion of effort.
But inside,
there’s a stillness,
a void where purpose should be.
I’m not lazy;
I’m stuck,
frozen by too many tasks
that feel like they’re written in a language
I’ve never learned to read.
And the worst part?
I’ve been busy for so long
that I’ve forgotten what it feels like
to be productive.
Faking It for Others
I grew up learning how to fake it—
not just productivity,
but everything.
Smile when you’re sad.
Nod when you’re confused.
Say yes when every cell in your body
wants to scream no.
It was survival, at first.
But now it feels like habit,
like muscle memory.
Even when I’m alone,
I catch myself pretending—
sitting upright when I’m exhausted,
writing lists I’ll never complete,
practicing small talk
for conversations that never come.
I wonder sometimes
if they’d still love me
if I stopped performing.
If I let them see the cracks
in the façade I’ve built so carefully.
Would they fill them in with kindness?
Or walk away,
saying it’s not what they signed up for?
Productivity in Slow Motion
They think I don’t notice the glances—
the subtle sighs,
the raised eyebrows
when I take too long
to finish what they expect
to be simple.
But I see it all.
I feel their impatience
like a weight pressing down on me,
making it harder to move,
harder to think.
What they don’t see
is how much energy it takes
just to start.
To fight the friction in my mind,
to push past the fog
of executive dysfunction
and focus on the task in front of me.
I may move slowly,
but every step I take is deliberate,
every effort a small victory
against the inertia that threatens
to pull me under.
The Currency of Time
They say time is money,
but for me,
time is something else entirely.
It’s the hours spent recovering
from a social event
that drained me more than I can explain.
It’s the minutes lost
to stimming in the quiet corners of my mind,
the seconds stolen
by sensory overload
that leaves me gasping for calm.
They value time spent in meetings,
in deadlines,
in hustle.
I value time spent in stillness,
in focus,
in the kind of quiet productivity
that doesn’t fit neatly
into their spreadsheets.
We’re all spending the same currency,
but I’ve learned
to spend mine differently.
Introduction: Why I Write Poems About Autism, Love, and Everything in Between
I never set out to write poetry. It wasn’t something I dreamed about or studied in school. Poetry felt intimidating, like walking into a room full of intellectuals who all knew the secret handshake, while I stood in the corner trying not to spill my drink.
But then, life happened—messy, overwhelming life—and I realized I had things to say that didn’t fit neatly into paragraphs or conversations. Autism, love, solitude, longing—they’re hard to pin down in prose. Sometimes they need the space and rhythm of poetry to breathe.
I wrote my first poem in my early twenties, during one of those nights when the world felt too loud and too quiet all at once. I’d just had my heart broken (again), and I was spiraling, replaying every awkward moment, every missed cue. The words came out of me like a flood. They weren’t polished, and they didn’t rhyme, but they were mine. And for the first time, I felt like I’d captured something real.
Now, poetry is how I process the things that feel too big to carry alone. It’s where I go when I’m overwhelmed or longing for connection. It’s my way of turning the chaos into something I can hold.
The Poets Who Taught Me How to Feel
I didn’t grow up reading poetry, but when I discovered it, I fell hard. Sylvia Plath was my first love—the rawness of Ariel, the way she could turn despair into something devastatingly beautiful.
“Out of the ash / I rise with my red hair / And I eat men like air.” (Lady Lazarus)
That line still gives me chills.
Then there was Pablo Neruda, who taught me how to write about love—not the Hallmark version, but the kind that consumes you, that leaves you wrecked and grateful all at once.
“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.” (Sonnet XVII)
And Mary Oliver, with her quiet reverence for the world. She made me want to notice things—the way sunlight filters through a curtain, the sound of rain hitting the roof—and to hold those moments like treasures.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?” (The Summer Day)
Lines That Live in My Head
Certain poems feel like they were written just for me. I carry their lines with me, repeating them like mantras when the world feels unsteady.
From Rainer Maria Rilke:
“Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart
and try to love the questions themselves.”
From Anne Sexton:
“Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.”
From Leonard Cohen:
“There is a crack in everything,
That’s how the light gets in.”
These words are like breadcrumbs, leading me back to myself when I feel lost.
When I Write Poetry
I write poems when I can’t find the words to explain how I’m feeling. When I’m overwhelmed by love or grief, or when the solitude of an evening feels heavier than usual.
I write after awkward conversations, after heartbreaks, after those moments when I replay everything I said and wonder how I could’ve done it differently. I write when the world feels too big, and I need a small, quiet place to retreat.
Sometimes, I write for other people—to say the things I’m too scared to say out loud. Sometimes, I write just for myself, to make sense of the noise in my head.
Why Poetry Matters to Me
Poetry is where I get to be unapologetically me. There’s no right or wrong way to write it—no grammar rules to follow, no expectations to meet. It’s a space where I can be messy and raw and still feel like I’ve created something meaningful.
For an autistic person navigating a world full of unwritten rules, poetry feels like freedom. It’s the one place where I don’t have to mask, where I don’t have to explain myself. I can just be.
And maybe that’s why I love it so much—because in poetry, I’ve found a language that makes sense to me.
The Language of Longing
I’ve spent years watching love from the sidelines,
studying it like a foreign language
with no translation dictionary.
The way people lean into each other’s sentences,
the unspoken promises in a glance,
the rhythm of touch and trust—
it all seems so effortless to them,
like breathing.
For me, love is a code I can’t quite crack.
Every word feels weighted,
every gesture a riddle.
Did they mean what they said,
or what they didn’t say?
Did I miss the moment to lean in,
to touch their hand,
to say the thing
that would have made them stay?
The Quiet Desperation of Waiting
I once read that love finds you
when you stop looking.
But how do you stop looking
when the longing lives in your bones?
When every passing couple on the street
feels like a reminder
of what you’re missing?
There’s a special kind of ache
in wanting to be seen,
really seen,
and knowing that even if someone looks at you,
they might not understand
what they’re seeing.
So I wait,
not passively, but painfully,
hoping that someone, someday,
will find beauty in my silence,
will understand the depth
in the words I don’t say.
First Dates and Fumbling
First dates feel like an audition
for a role I don’t know how to play.
What should I wear?
What should I say?
What part of myself should I hide,
and what part should I show
to make them stay
past the appetizer?
I’ve learned to script the small talk,
to laugh when I think I should,
to nod like I understand
the subtleties of their stories.
But halfway through,
I feel the mask slipping,
and I wonder:
if they saw the real me,
would they still want a second date?
The Weight of Touch
Touch is a language
I don’t always speak fluently.
Sometimes it feels like static electricity,
sharp and shocking,
a sensory overload I can’t control.
Other times, it’s the softest whisper,
a grounding anchor in a world of chaos.
I crave it and fear it in equal measure.
The warmth of a hand on mine,
the weight of an arm around my shoulders—
they speak a kind of love
I don’t know how to ask for
but long to feel.
The Ones Who Left
They say heartbreak is universal,
but there’s a peculiar sting
in being left because you’re “too much”
or “not enough.”
Too quiet.
Too intense.
Too strange.
Not easy.
Not normal.
I’ve heard it all before,
in words and in silences,
in the slow fading of texts,
in the way their eyes stop meeting mine.
Each goodbye feels like proof
that love isn’t built
for people like me.
But then I remember:
it only takes one person to stay.
My Favorite Poems and Why I Love Them
There’s Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas. The rage, the defiance—it reminds me that it’s okay to feel things fiercely, to fight against the darkness.
There’s Wild Geese by Mary Oliver, which feels like a deep breath when I’m drowning in self-doubt:
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.”
And there’s Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara, which captures love in the most mundane, magical way:
“It is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary.”
What I Want Them to Know
I’m not easy to love,
but I’m worth it.
I don’t know the rules of romance,
but I’ll create my own.
I might stumble over the words,
but I’ll love you fiercely,
with everything I have.
I’ll notice the little things—
the way your voice softens
when you talk about your dreams,
the songs you hum when you think no one’s listening.
I’ll love you in details,
in quiet gestures,
in a way that might feel unfamiliar
but will always be real.
The Love I’m Searching For
I’m not looking for someone
to “fix” me or complete me.
I’m whole,
even when I feel fractured.
But I’m looking for someone
who can sit with me in the quiet,
who doesn’t need me to fill the silences
or smooth the rough edges.
Someone who sees my quirks
not as obstacles to overcome,
but as part of what makes me, me.
Someone who doesn’t just tolerate my stimming,
my special interests,
my need for solitude—
but embraces them.
The Hope That Lingers
Love feels far away,
like a constellation I can see
but can’t touch.
Still, I reach for it,
because hope is a stubborn thing.
And maybe, someday,
I’ll find someone who reaches back.
Why I Keep Writing
I write because the world is overwhelming, and this is how I make sense of it. I write because it’s the only way I know how to say the things that feel too big to keep inside.
I write because poetry has saved me—again and again—and I hope my words might do the same for someone else.
So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt like the world doesn’t quite make sense, like you’re carrying something too heavy to name, I hope you’ll pick up a pen or open a blank document. Write badly. Write messily. Write like no one will ever read it.
Because sometimes, the act of writing is what saves us.
