A Portrait of the Artist as Barely a Man

One of the easiest ways I find to process my feelings is through poetry. With my diagnosis weighing on me, I turned to writing to help make sense of it.

A Portrait of the Artist as Barely a Man

Who am I,
the autistic man,
thick-treacle-tongued,
bloated, viscous globules
where sparks should be,
the cave of a mouth
its roof collapsing
spitting rocks and rubble
trying to be your friend,
trying to hold your hand
through a hurricane,
the muddled coloured cube
plucked from puddled mud
to be turned and twisted and
tried to put right so
that all sides matched,
the crasher and faller
across the obstacle course,
a clown
sprinting for his dream
with lead-lined shoes.
Who am I
but a desperate moth
dying by the light it longs for.

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