It Tickles Me
By, Fawn P.
September 6th, 2026
Stars dance,
They touch and hold,
They feel, and grab,
They watch the koi fish swim,
The moon is my anchor,
As i swim in the deep,
It’s lights my only guide,
warm yet empty,
It’s grip strong yet, gentle,
Guiding my tail it propels me,
I turn to the wind,
I lean to the smell,
Dust and wax,
Tickle my nose and tongue,
When the songs are soft,
and the world is dimmed,
I lean to the world,
To guide my movements,
You’re autistic, you say?
Well that’s on you.
You chose medication,
Rather than meditation,
Take some accountability!
You don’t like wearing jeans?
Well don’t just blame your genes!
Attention-Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder?
More like Attention-Desperate Human-Disease.
Don’t get upset,
I’m just trying to help you!
You might not know as much as me,
But that’s okay!
Anyway,
Have you tried drinking water?
The dancer with no legs
moves swiftly around the room,
knocking over the vase, and
gracefully turns to the window.
"I wish I were like the moon,"
She calls out into the night.
Her vain wishes like stones crash
through the window toward the stars.
I shift my legs to keep
one from falling asleep.
"Sometimes, I want to fall asleep,"
She tells me, “And never wake up."
Her strong arms lift the body
from wheeled chair to sofa.
And somewhere in the distance
Her stones splash into the ocean.
And now we come to the special cases:
You know, they are at the edge of the living,
Questionable that they fit the classification
Just a little red gristle at the articulations
Very desiccated, like pampas grass
Flopping like straw umbrellas
Non-speaking specimens,
What can they be thinking -
If anything?
Cradle one in your arms;
Isn’t it sad
What you think of them
Someone thinks of you
It feels like a lock
Click
slamming shut on a door I used to walk through without thinking.
Words
they pile up inside me.
Not gone.
Not lost.
Just trapped.
Like a river swelling against a dam that will not break.
My mouth is stone.
My body heavy.
And every attempt to speak is like running in a dream:
legs sinking,
distance endless,
the finish line always just out of reach.
Inside, I am screaming.
Inside, I am whispering.
Inside, I am still me.
But you can’t hear me.
Because the silence is thick.
Not empty, no.
Thick with frustration,
thick with shame,
thick with the ache
of wanting
so desperately wanting to be understood
without having to explain.
So don’t rush me.
Don’t push me.
Stay.
Wait with me
in the quiet.
Because this silence
is not absence.
It is survival.
It is my body saying:
enough.
And when I return
when my voice crawls back
know this:
I was never gone.
I was always here.
Behind the glass.
Behind the lock.
Still me.
Always me.
Who is disabled?
Is it me, or is it you?
Should disability be based
On an anatomical stock-take,
Or based on what you can do?
For I can climb mountains,
I can soar through the sky,
And I can slay dragons,
With just a blink of an eye,
I can overcome barriers,
Fight against impossible odds,
Ignore patronising glances
And condescending nods.
So who is disabled?
Is it me, or is it you?
It is completely subjective,
It’s just your point of view…
Don’t see only our disabilit-ease,
Don’t deny us basic facilit-ease,
Don’t ignore our many abilit-ease,
Don’t compound our varied difficult-ease,
Deal head-on with the harsh realit-ease.
You never know what life has in store,
You may fall one day and rise no more,
You may join our ranks, afraid, unsure,
You may write words to plead; implore.
We are not an alien race,
We have a voice, we have a face,
We have our part to play; a place.
Let us join life’s lively dance,
Let us have an equal chance.
Pl- ease.
Where was your manual for me.
The mandatory rehabilitation.
Ignorance is bliss and you had built up frustration. Aggravation.
Where was your patience.
Waiting for the other shoe to drop contemplating.
we needed a manual for the situation.
That’s all i’m saying.
On the other hand where was the contribution.
lost for words at the amusement.
The alternative resolution.
Where was your manual for me.
The mandatory rehabilitation.
Ignorance is bliss and you had built up frustration. Aggravation.
Where was your patience.
should of said can you do a favor for me?
provide the struggle.
show her how hard you had to hustle.
what it’s like to get into a scuffle.
it’s all fun and games until you have to adapt.
you got work with what you have.
that you didn’t have apart of your craft.
it lacked and lagged.
Where was your manual for me.
The mandatory rehabilitation.
Ignorance is bliss and you had built up frustration. Aggravation.
Where was your patience.
if you were taught would of been a different story.
should have been given more.
what you had on your plate was more than you could afford.
Autism is always a hard pill to swallow,
Like planting a bullet on the skull
Drifted from life's wonders
As if I've slipped away.
Stigmatized like a cockroach
And knocked back from footy.
With my body soiled and discoloured
Embarrassed and humiliated on the face.
Mama asked me about school
Hoping it was okay,
Yet its darkness doesn't fade away
Like living in the bull pit of Sam Hill.
Then I get angry and fond of the bottle
Having nothing but doubt and shame,
As if suicide is a way out of the pain
And lifting the pressure off my chest.
Great tiny apple
Consequence of branches untrimmed
Will anyone bother to learn
That you are
Defiantly delicious?
I splat the slim cigarette's ashes onto the pavement,
Little to no care of my own psychological impairment,
While living through life with no means of any repayment.
Through out the years the brown eye girl has seen it, have heard it even been a victim to it. From the way people talked to her and others like her to how they treat them as if they were less then human. They may not say they treat people any different than the beings that they are. It’s as if they believe that the people like the brown eye girl brought it onto themselves. She expected more from the people around her the ones claiming to be her friend or their friends. Even some family members treat them as if they asked for their limits from the high power. Have they ever thought if we had the choice, we would want to be normal just like any other square peg in the bag? Now she is second guessing herself in letting in the wrong people in her life. From the people she had known all her life to the man who owns the ice cream shop in town. When will we ever get it right in who we bring in our lives? It seems to her no matter who or what happens no one really understand how to see the disabled as just people.
Christian quote: He who mistreats the most unfortunate among us, mistreats me—Jesus
Cruelty On Parade
He enjoys mocking the severely ill and lame
Cruelty unbridled that's his game
The Good Book he'll tout
"Don't dare call me a lout"
How dare he campaign in the glow of His name
—Robert Gorelick
The fool should hang his head in shame
For mocking those who’re ill or lame
He’ll get just reward
When facing the Lord
It’s simply just a waiting game
—Beryl Edmunds
She hears the same thing all the time. “She needs to learn her place and stay there.” The brown eye girl is sick of hearing it even in whispers from people. Year after year the brown eye girl has to Indore the b.s from people around her.
Do they honestly think she doesn’t understand what they say or what they mean? It’s as if they don’t believe she isn’t smart enough to learn anything simply cause she has a learning disorder. One person went as far as saying as if the brown eye girl acts more like a child then the grown adult she pretends to be. She wasn’t aware she was just playing dress up how come no one told her? Maybe it’s time for some people to see her for who she is and not what they think they see. The brown eye girl sometimes wonder if she didn’t have disabilities would people treat her the same way or differently? Would they treat her with kid gloves still or tell her what they really think? Perhaps it’s about time for people to learn their place and stop telling her; her own limitations of what the brown eye girl can do. It’s time for them to learn to accept her instead of putting the brown eye girl in her place.
His radiant countenance
exudes vibrant thanksgiving
while cheering with jubilant glow…
yet, his lips couldn’t verbalize it.
So, here am I…
his Mom, in striving to talk about it
would rather poetically express
special child’s mirth of purity
upon learning that he is commended
for his achievement in his learning endeavor.
He was diagnosed with infantile spasm epilepsy
“to progress toward retrogression”
breaking my heart … 15 years ago…
Despite agonizing moments
along therapy sessions
he had emerged victorious…
Albeit angst in my motherhood days
his conquest helped me manage our partnership
propped by faith, marked with divine love…
Now, we are grateful to God
Who specializes in the impossible*
as he keeps on talking in sign language
about his delight for receiving a medal
while advancing fast with his wheel chair.
*Luke 1:37 For with God nothing shall be impossible.
July 5, 2024
1st place, "I couldn't talk about it, so I wrote a poem" Free Verse Poetry Writing Contest; Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 7/22/2024
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