I’m a listener.
I listen to the mind, that struggles, for attention.
I’m a writer. I create, and write emotions. In different stanzas.
It is repetitive; obsessive, and calibrated.
I write with glory.
It speaks louder than words.
I’m obsessive with my space.
I cherish my words.
My pen spit with passion.
I have the loudest mind.
But: the lowest voice.
My voice is lost to violent.
I’ve witness it.
I’ve seen it.
I’m not damage, I’m just a product of my society.
I’m an artist.
I live in my illusions.
I put live in my creations.
I’m a musician, with no song.
I love the tune of music.
It gives my world, A vibe.
I can’t remember you.
I don’t notice you.
I may never talk to you.
Even:
when I love you
I know. You think, I’m pitiful.
I’m not. I’m just a little bit different.
I’m autistic.
I may not greet you.
We might not talk.
But:
To me,
We are best of friends.
I want to call your name
I want to communicate.
But I’m autistic
I love the smiles on your lips.
I love the rhythm of your body.
I want to touch you .
May be roam my hands a little bit on the fats
I don’t trust you.
I don’t trust anybody.
They all take advantage of me.
They always hurt me.
I really want to talk about it.
But:
I’m autistic.
It’s silent whispers.
Forgotten in prints.
I want to do better.
I’m sorry.
I’m autistic.
Poetry By Ayanfe