The lost soul inside.

Dark-digital-art-by-David-Ho9

I am,

An open book,

With pages,

Missing.

 

I am,

An old film,

With frames cut,

Out.

 

I am,

An imposable puzzle,

With secrets,

Written on the back,

Of every piece.

 

I am like a memory,

Shattered into so many,

Small pieces,

That no one can ever,

Seem to remember me,

Whole.

 

I am,

An old pocket watch,

Lost in the sands,

Of time.

 

I am a little box,

With feelings locked inside,

But you can’t open me,

Because,

I have no key.

 

I am the kid,

That everyone see’s,

Yet still somehow,

Never seems to notice.

 

I am the child,

That speaks,

Yet no one ever hears,

The words I cry. 

 

I am the flame,

That will soon,

Go out.

 

But for you,

I will use,

The last,

Of my fire,

To keep,

You safe.   

This poem was written by my middle son just a few days ago. I know it has been tough on him growing up as the middle child, anchored as he is,  on either side, by siblings on the Autism Spectrum.

His words say it all and I am so very proud of his  extraordinarily sensitive and caring soul.

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3 thoughts on “The lost soul inside.

  1. This sum up the feeling of living 24 years of my life being a hfa in a world where understanding/knowledge is minimal. The longing to be “normal”. Wanting to hang out with more than one friend but distancing yourself from group interaction due to a sensory overlode. Having to force social interaction but craving isolation. It is so hard to keep caring about work and maintaing relationships when people don’t understand the strugle of being autistic.

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