Personal writing: poems

Last year, I started writing poetry. Today, I added more poems to the collection I started.

I have no plans for this, but I wish to share some of them with you.

Be warned, as these poems may be triggering to autistic people and/or people who have experienced anxiety and/or depression.

Stay safe.

The poems:

Once upon a time, a girl was presented before the great gods

The great gods marked her skin with magical ink, which only a few could see – including the girl herself

And the magical marks read:

Asperger’s

and

social anxiety

But then the great gods decided that these words were

wrong

not exactly the right words

Since the ink was

inerasable

magic

they marked her with new words:

Autism Spectrum Disorder

and

symptoms of depression

But then they decided that only one word would do:

Autism

And the girl o so young bore the marks of magical inks

 unsure what to do with them

And the people who could see the marks read the words

but often did not know what to do

with them

either

–

Once upon a time, there was a girl who had come to understand what the words marked in magical ink by the great gods meant

or so she thought

And she did not know what to do with those meanings,

so she continued with life

But soon the girl discovered that there were

visible signs

connected to those magically inked-on words

– signs visible to almost everyone

She found that most of those signs were

not met with positivity,

so she tried her best to hide the signs.

Yet those signs ate at her

from the inside out

and the girl suffered

But most people couldn’t see her suffering, and those who did

couldn’t help her end the suffering

So when the great

God of Death

stretched out its hand, she was desperate to take it,

but hence came forth the great

God of Life

too, who warned her

not to take Death’s hand

And so, the girl stood at the cliff crossroads:

Whose hand should she take?

Should she take

the hand of Death,

 who promised an end to her pain?

or the hand of Life,

 who promised

a long road to less

yet still-returning pain?

The girl decided to

hide

from the

God of Death

and the

God of Life

She dove into

stories and lives and minds.

She hid in

magical, futuristic, dystopian worlds.

But the great gods

found her

again

and again

and

again

always

The great gods told the girl she could not

hide in fiction

They said she could not

hide in fake worlds, written words, played-out scripts

And so, the girl

faced reality

And this reality

This reality was harsh

Unforgiving

–

The God of Death was

soft and comforting and kind

The God of Life was

kind and comforting and soft

But where Life was

genuine

Death told

l i e s

–

Death told the girl that

nobody

would care if she

followed the god to

the Realm of the Dead

nobody would care if she left

the Realm of the Living

But Life said they would care

and the God of Life was

genuine

And the girl had yet to find out

who was genuine

and

who told lies

–

At night came

The God of Death

dragging her undiagnosed depression

out

o u t

o          u          t

negative voices, dread so heavy, sadness so deep, deadly wishes

Death loved the latter

But the girl-who-did-not-feel-like-a-woman

utterly hated the latter

distraction

conceal

don’t feel

don’t let them know

because when she let go

the storm she unleashed was a curse even the

great gods could not

b                      e                      k

r                       a

–

The God of Death sometimes visited

in the morning

during the afternoon

at night

But also

in the evening

during sleep

at all times

Often the girl/woman

wasn’t safe from Death and

the depression

the anxiety

he loved

them

but

she hated

i t

–

The barricades she put up against Death were made of

ice magic

And the gods watched in concern

as her icy heart grew heavier by the day

too heavy

too cold

But most important of all

So easily

 

s          h          a          t           t           e          r          e          d

–

You are weak

says Death

or one of the deities siding with Death

that day

or all at the same time

and so

you strap another impenetrable lions’ hide on

pick up a cursed curved blade

and fight

 

(sometimes against the wrong enemies)

–

It’s hard to tell

who’s a

friend

and who’s an

enemy

when the battles are all

inside of you

 

(not just inside of your head)

–

Life is a constant battle when even your dreams are unsafe

 

I am a

gladiatrix

day

and

night

–

She kissed a boy

who was actually

a monster

then kissed another

who was actually

a god

 

And it took her so long to see through their masks

but if she can see through their masks

then perhaps

she can see through the masks of

Death and Life

as well

–

Inspiration is a fleeting thing like

Petals

Falling

From

Flowers

So delicate

So sweet

Going unnoticed until

 

They wither away

–

My muse would sing to me of

Powerful women

Of

Magic

She gave me the bricks I needed to build worlds

To build worlds with words

To create characters

To weave words into stories

Now she’s silent

No magic

No bricks

No words

No characters

No stories for me to write

 

O muse, sing to me once again

–

Fiction made me believe I needed to

Find my prince

In order to

Find happiness

But really, happiness is a treasure I have

Yet to unearth

 

I am a future-archaeologist digging for happiness

–

Slowly, the magical marks on the woman’s skin started to fade.

But she did not know whether she should be relieved

for she had started to accept them

see them as a part of herself

a part of her

identity

If only

the rest of the world would do the same

 

She chose acceptance over awareness

–

I’m fine

No more, no less

Just fine

Not bad, not good

Not happy, not sad

Just fine, okay, stable

And pretending to be unmarked

Yet when I am not fine

I mask

I pretend I am fine

but if you ask?

I will be honest

I will say

I am not okay

 

Sometimes words don’t match their meaning

–

 

Feast

for the Muse

has returned

she brought a gift

cement for my bricks

the bricks to build worlds

the paper for my stories

I have the ink

I am the pen

Mighty

Perhaps even mightier than the sword

–

The girl

now a woman

felt like

an imposter

pretending to be

kind, loving, caring

and

okay, fine, happy

but she

felt like

a monster

with a heart of

ice

and breath like

fire

for the words on her lips

had burned many a person

and the words of others

had frozen her own heart

 

Who am I?

–

That’s all I have to share. These are my favorites, I wrote a few more I like less.

Take care,

Rachel

Graceful Goddess

A very ungraceful and autistic mortal