Which Spells?
Must I Decipher My Metaphors?:
Magic isn’t real.
Secular Witch,
My Stitches Are Faux,
Faux Pas By The Thousands –
A Hundred Hollow Wishes.
Fine.
Eight Lines Inscribed:
I’ll tell you a secret or two –
Drag on like nails on chalkboard,
Taught on more than a few.
Rhyming Couplets;
Meaning nothing.
Meter,
Alliteration,
Nor Paradox.
My Open Secrets?
I remain dangerous.
Too clever by half,
For deformed mutant –
Born missing the tip of one ear,
Excesses of cartilage spikes elsewhere.
A Curse Hangs In The Air Of Every Room,
I Inhabit.
With ever increasing amounts of tension.
Ugly as a troll,
Yet blessed with genius.
The Curse Bears Me Forward Thus:
Transparency Slides Aside,
I can kill a person –
Half a dozen ways with my bare hands.
Yet swore unique vows of Pacifism.
Power feeding on ironies,
Or paradoxes,
I wield as weapons.
Danger.
Alarm.
Creeping discomfort –
Being in a room with monsters,
By neurodivergent standards.
Tell me all my comorbidities!
Half Dozen Disabilities,
Each With Hosts Of Quirks!
They Remain My Strengths,
When Their Use Is Reviled.
Seen as strange,
Unnatural,
Until we felt more like cryptids –
Than Men.
Started stopping being men.
The Curse, The Curse.
Goldblum sly,
Petulant Charisma,
Holding Any Room At My Leisure.
Piss Poor Monk,
I’m often silent for days,
At times even weeks.
Other times,
I’m gorging on dopamine.
Languishing in my self-destruction.
Enlightenment?
Told You:
Got mine through madness.
Half Dozen Attempts,
At Ego Death.
The Infinite Deconstruction Of The Self.
Age?
Let’s say for politesse;
Thirties.
A lot can happen in mere years –
Let alone decades.
Long enough for my Blood Curse,
To blossom:
Into a haemotologist’s nightmares.
Sleight of hand?
Shit.
Prefer to wield purest Truth:
Tool.
Weapons wielded as blunt force objects.
Perverse Charisma,
Filling a room like a stench.
Listening is powerful.
Hundreds of times,
Meandering Thoughts –
Questions,
Are answered soon after.
Choices.
A choice to remain silent.
The Curse!
The Curse.
Genetic Lotteries,
& We Lost.
Hardship?
Inevitable.
That’s why rooms,
Full of people talking & laughing,
Are such rare examples,
Of A Certain Beautiful Sadness.
Love them.
Added to the hundreds;
Different Beautiful Sadnesses,
All their own.
Infinite Creation.
SCRIBBLING INFINITE WORDS.
Monkey,
Meet Typewriter.
Flowers,
Meet Algernon.
The Curse?
Ability to stop breaths within earshot.
Passive Auras Of Fear & Loathing.
Tacit Wisdom,
To speak little.
Yet loud when one does.
Neurotypical discomfort –
Hardly rattles me.
We’re merely describing old norms,
Told across centuries.
Masking exists,
For our protection.
The Curse,
Is for me.
Monkey, Meet Typewriter. Flowers, Meet Algernon.
