More Realistic to Call Me Autistic Not Artistic

There is a wall inside my brain between me and the rest of the world. It is an impermeable membrane that filters out my genuine message and filters through my tone and body language a message that is nothing that I mean to say. The gist is how people take it, speech is the gray between what you meant and what they make it; what, to anyone outside of me, was said.

Now this unkind wall causes me in all my interactions to bang into it with recurring concussive blows, for what I mean

is mostly lost to an audience who cannot see or hear past their own eyes,

nobody will ever know.

My replys are usually taken incorrectly.

I’m a bare bones speaker and when I say what I mean then there is always some exterior editing, associating all kinds of things that if I had meant; I would have said.

I’m simple and simplicity eludes many.

I will wind up dead on this character flaw alone.

Thusly writing is where I find home. It is where my heart is for it is founded on this milled pressed conglomerate of tiny wood waste particles that stipulate precisely the articles I record upon them. Written in pen the words I cultivate become less open to the crowds guesses. What I write can’t be misquoted, as it has the ability to be looked back at and can be cross referenced in general. I like the longevity that comes with placing it in its parchment cage by way of pen or pencil.

I feel less lonely for the thought that one day someone might know me through the verbage I construe and while they dont know, or have a clue, it is the only clear communication I get. It’s my truth.

The only one I have or had,

Cause I gave it away,

and what’s sad is

nobody knew.