Cocoons Can be Comfy

an introverted autist retreats

This World Today

Don’t mind me. Having an attack of the irritated-old-lady syndrome, or, one of those nights I want to throw shoes at my TV screen…😉

Pointless, sheer idiocy is this world today…

Whose got the fastest car,

Biggest house,

Most cash,

Best Botox-injected features?

Whose clothing can be most brief

And soundbites say the least,

Yet still be revered

As royalty?

Who can pursue the most gain

Without any real effort or pain?

Who can pose as part of the deep

While skimming the shallow in their sleep?

Who can spend the most time 

Dancing on the fringes and lies

And shrug off the most morals and

Integrities of life? 

Who can emphasize the least significance

And miss the most importance?

Who can find their pride

On what’s on the outside

And throw away their minds

With the least repentance?

Sheer, pointless idiocy is….

Too much of

This world today…

My Watchful Eye

Busy day, busy mind;

Your call breaks through the stress;

I prep for it to stir up more.

But, your voice doesn’t wield the 

Usual, subtle razors of critique;

Bafflingly, it carries actual kindness,

Something occasionally offered, but 

Nothing I ever dare to out-and-out  


I long to embrace it,

Declare it authentic.

Yet, it’s all too much like

Stepping out on a familiar precipice;

Scenery’s always so similar-

Pretty promises swirling round,

A delight to see, but a bit 

Precarious when your view zooms in 

On the distant ground.

Been here a thousand and one times,

After all, 

And still find it no place to 

Comfortably or safely recline…

And I find myself flinging my forever 

Questions once more on the line:

When does the footing slip?

When will the ledge give way?

I know this tranquility easily rips.

Just want to know what moment?

What hour?

What day?

Don’t want paranoia to paralyze,

Want to take the gifts that come.

Yet, don’t want to entirely surrender 

My watchful eye;

Not quite ready to risk a heart’s 


Not when I only get one.

So…a smile into the phone with hope,

But, a firm hold on the protections 

That help me cope.

I know mistakes may very well be 

Just down the road;

We are all only frail, truth be known.

But, as I grow into this, my 

Happy, protective abode,

I find the strength to finally arrive

Decidely into my own…

Body of Work

From my brain a brilliant somebody 


Twisting phrases are its


Metaphors its life’s blood,

Pumping vivid description through

A thousand veins.

Verbs arise where I cannot be verbal,

Providing links to mankind

Despite a slow tongue.

Letters light up the lungs,

Lending lyrical air to emotions

So often buried.

Poetry, my friend,

My bright, beautiful solace!

You were born long before me,

Yet bend uniquely to my heart’s desire,

Becoming my body of work,

Standing tall where my feet have fallen.

Poetry, my friend, my rescuer!

How I adore what you do for me!


I am fairly okay today, despite some frustrations in the last few days. But, in reflection of my various anxieties and the struggle to manage them in the real world-especially privately- I had a few thoughts….


A perpetual holding of breath.

Underwater no less.

All while you quietly flail about in the


In a pet store window,

Various voyeurs poking their fingers

Against the glass,

Standing agog,

As if waiting for you to do a trick

Or snap.

But, no, no…

You mustn’t do that.

Tricks are far too complicated right now,

And snapping in front of a dozen

Questioning eyes is just so…


So, you just keep holding that breath instead,

Keep that subtle, semi-rhythmic kick

To your secretly, desperately paddling legs

And pray to God they move on

Before you can’t hold it in anymore….


Time is something I get preoccupied by, particularly in context of how it can rule over us. I feel as if I have touched on this somewhat before, but, it’s on my mind again, so, what can I do but follow my muse? Besides, it’s been years since I did a creative word picture. It was time.😉

Clock can be such a cruel taskmaster,

Time a mean old woman with owlish eyes.

She clicks and clucks her tongue

And chides you to

Just get on with it,

Faster and faster…

Whatever “it” is supposed to be.

Sometimes, I know;

Sometimes, “it” is just a mystery….

Yet, somehow, the spindly hands of the


Keep on turning on,

Ticking like a bomb,

Unconcerned with my distress,

Marching on in spite of my awkward mess.

And I keep on going and going with it,

One foot upon another upon another

And another again.

Sometimes, I long to snatch the 

Tssking secondhand

And cease it to spin.

But, whoever can close fingers over a 

Single moment and seal it

Within their shaky palm?

As foolhardy a wish as reaching up and 

Restraining the strains of dawn!

No, clock shall always win out,

Time prodding us ever forward

Without regard to our doubts.

All we can do is sink in to its rushing tide,

Allow it to carry us hither and yon

And find our breaths where we can in the

Midst of its relentless stride…

Meltdown Aftermath

It is hard to draw a translation of my meltdowns, but this sort of represents me in “recovery mode”, wrapped in my proverbial cocoon.

Tired beyond the edge of existence,

Bones feel slow and hollow,

Head scarcely able to make any sense.

Meltdown aftermath…

Sick to my stomach with the

Overboiled ooze that is your wrath.

Here I sit in the daze of another day’s

Revelation hangover,

Eyes glazed by emotion’s dragging parade.

Your harangue still rings the ear spaces

Where you invaded.

I know you want it all to gloss

Like a fancy chocolate ganache,

But, ah, the cake underneath still

Tastes bitter,

My insides still pulse with

A churning hot river,

My throat ripped raw,

Voice reduced to an incoherent quiver.

And this cocoon, this inner retreat?

Well, it won’t fade at your moment’s whim,

Nor your resentfully dim request

I cease my need for a catatonic stim.

Just because I am not able to exercise your 

Hurdle-past-the-hurts rhythm

Does not mean you need to knock

What I need to keep me mentally able to 

Swing from limb to limb….

Room to Dance

Been thinking of random talking for a while now, but every time I began to compose a line, other words would cram their way into my consciousness and clamor for my attention.

They’re delightfully demanding that way. 🙂

But, it seems more flowery thought is quieted at present, so I will attempt a bit of regular relating and processing-accidental or otherwise…

For those wondering about my sweet girl and her dancing feet, she is easing away from her boot and thrilled to twirl again, even on a limited basis.

Though I am proud of and awed by her incredible strength these past weeks, it makes my heart soar to see her taking flight again.

Because this is truly her. Who she was created to be…so very free.

And, honestly, who I always longed to be allowed to be.

But, such frivolity was not my mother’s brand.

Oh, she had a brand, and still has.

But, if you dared to have your own taste? Apart from hers?

Well, then, that was just tacky. Nasty. Stupid.

Ooh-wee! Stinky.

Much how you might sully her precious floors and make them “unsanitary”, so liking the wrong music, movement, literature, movie, TV show was tantamount to sullying her homefront.

And it wasn’t even about age-appropriateness. Actually, very rarely, unless she had a hypocritical urge to shield our eyes from “filth” that was not her pick. ( if it was, then the expletives and nudity were “okay” because it’s a “good story” or “so funny”. Talk about confusing!)

But, as said, that was not as frequent. 

What was was anything she deemed dumb, therefore worth being ragged on and decried as a horror against “intelligent society” any time we so much as expressed an interest.

There was little room afforded to the individual to be, well, an individual.

No encouragement to be something different-or, at least, different from her.

Geezalou.  There is more than one flavor in the world, Ma!!

There’s a boatload of possibilities beyond the sourness you shovelled in us!!

Suck it up, buttercup!…..

Umm…wow. Not where I intended to go. So not. My mom and I do possess a rather complicated relationship even today, but there is also a lot of growing forgiveness as we slowly, carefully pick through painful, cluttered memories in the respective attics of our minds.

See…I didn’t know I was even still angry about this.

Or about anything today. 


Or maybe it comes in part as residuals from last night’s violent movie triggers.

Or frustrations with the business, and as a result, finances.

Or dear, well-meaning mother-in-law trying to prod me back into book tours, which I know could be good for my writing and maybe even mankind 🙄, but really, really sucky for my mental state,😥 unless I get to control all wheres, whens, whats, and whos. 

Which is ever in doubt with steamrollers in the midst.


Whew. Anyway…guess there could be a few things to stir up some fumes and cause me to suck in a smoggy breath or two of jacked-up past…

Though I am so sick of being sidelined by that crud! Enough.

So…to circle back to the positive…at least, where joy was robbed, new joy appears.

In this case, in the redemptive power of a dreaming ballerina’s flying feet.

And knowing I will give her room to dance as her heart pleases….

Answer for a Sensory Overload

Uh, oh.

Someone is in that mood…

Gunfire on the TV.

M-16, round upon merciless round.

Military drumbeat.

Ominous undertones.

Tough, gritted-teeth curses

Spat out rapid-fire.

Jagged, ragged, shouted orders,

Blasting above the chopper blades,

An angry, tuneless choir.

Know it’s all pretend.

Know they’re bleeding out fakeness,

Filming crocodile tears and then

It’s off to lunch.

Know it’s ridiculous to be frightened 

At the sight of play actors at play, 

Yet, there it is, the mental sucker punch,

Pounding away inside,

Weeping for real,

Hollering how it’s all much too much;

Crying how I can’t help what I feel.

And I just have to run and hide,

Somewhere where they aren’t mowing

Whole cities down,

And gratuitous blow ups do not abound.

I despise small spaces, yet my urge is to

Dive under pillows.

Barring the ability,

I instead tune into the soft 

Background hum

In my head,

That which I can summon at a 

Moment’s notice,

For hard experience has taught me to 

Train in my thoughts’ train to 

Realign, retract, refocus…

Ah, sweet eternal, internal playlist!

You save me from so many of the

Sensory overloads of living…

Envelope and carry me over the

Violent, hairy fists

Film has wrought.

Show me a world past this endless,

Make-believe, violent thing

Which I grieve that

This world has bought…

The Fight

In the day to day, there is not often enough room to be who we are. It’s a fight. Always.

Should be…

Should be

Should be…

You are just two simple words on the

Face of things.

Yet, you are the bane of my existence,

Dictating beyond all my resistance

What I ought to be doing on

Any given day,

In any given period of living,

Always narrowing the point to

Just one way…

Oh, obnoxious, overbearing should be’s!

With your straight-jacketed knack for

Squeezing a person in

Till freedom of movement is hindered.

Your wagging finger weighs me down,

Leaving expression all but splintered.

Oh, there are days and times I

Push past you to put my dreams to

A pretty sort of practice,

But, then, there you are, back again,

Summoning me up to be your actress,

Pressing me into the undesired role of

Stereotypical “normalcy”,

Refusing to acknowledge its

Ultimate, utter fallacy.


You’re relentless!

And, yeah, you win some battles,

But know this-

I will never stop fighting

To yank the authentic me from the

Buried shelf.

I will never quit reclaiming the

Deepest parts of my truest self…

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