ATTENTION TO THOSE IN THE POETS PORCH COMMMUNITY

the killing of the weeds

we've all been told that they pick the flowers they think are the prettiest

and they do, they pluck the beautiful ones when they are young and they display them for all to see

but hidden away behind this is their treatment of the less beautiful ones

the ivy and and the dandelions - the 'weeds'

a weed is not a specific breed or family of plant, a weed is defined as 'a wild plant growing where it is not wanted and in competition with cultivated plants'

a weed is any plant that does not conform

a plant that is wild and unruly and a law unto itself

a plant that challenges the status quo, the norm

a plant that grows in competition, a plant thats non-conformance makes it brighter and bolder and braver

i can tell you what they do with those plants

they rip them out

they try and remove the roots as best as they can, to try and remove any chance of the resilient weed bouncing back up

they pour weed-killers, harsh chemicals designed to destruct

and they do so repeatedly

the forceful and ferocious beating down of those that dare to be different

the killing of the weeds

no one cares about that

they kill the weeds

mood this week <3

be aware of what you consume:

the energy of others: surround yourself with positive people and avoid those who drain you.

the videos you watch: select content that inspires, educates or entertains you in a healthy way.

what you read: look for reliable sources and material that enriches you intellectually.

who you follow: follow people who inspire and challenge you to grow.

what you scroll through on social media: avoid negative content and look for something that motivates you or makes you feel good.

the news: look for objective sources of information and avoid information overload.

highlights of others: compare less and celebrate more the achievements of others.

the advice you listen to: evaluate advice according to your criteria and needs.

source: @zamirasaba

i keep thinking about how rfk said that autistic people "will never write a poem." i keep thinking about that, about if humanity is calculated on the back of old verse. how far we measure personhood is in baseball and stanza breaks.

i keep thinking - i have over 7k poems on here alone. language can be a special interest, after all. did you know the word autism comes almost direct from the greek word autos, meaning "self"? self-ism.

maybe he is right - i haven't really played baseball. i was a ballet dancer instead. and besides - my sister once accidentally hit me in the face with an aluminum bat. i'm not sure if the injury gives me half points. am i only a person in the dugout? hand in a mitt? swinging?

does softball count? does cricket? am i a person if i throw the ball to my dog. am i a person as long as the ball is in the air, or do i stop being a person as it rolls into the bushes. i took my girlfriend to fenway recently; was i a person in the sun, with my hands up, with the game laid out at my feet in a diamond. i felt like a person, but that was back in the summer, and i often feel my most person-like then.

am i more of a person because of the sheer number of things i've written? does quality matter, or is it quantity? i used to write entire books every summer in high school - i wasn't doing well. i felt the least like-a-person back then. but then - does any person feel human in high school?

in the library, ink on my skin, i feel personhood shutter at the edges of myself. actually, writing feels blissfully like not being myself. it feels birdlike; escaping into creation so my body dissolves and i survive only by muscle memory. i am not there, i am writing.

but who can deny the falconlike focus of warsan shire, the tenderness of mary oliver, the sheer skill of amanda gorman. those are poets. they are certainly human. you could line them up with the way their words have influenced us and measure their literary shadows like wings.

perhaps it was very assumptive of me to want to be a poet rather than "a [ label ] poet." i wanted the work to fill itself in, rather than be stained by what i am. i do not write in despite of my neurodivergence, i am just neurodivergent and writing.

does the poem have to be in english or can i send it through my palms into the coat of my dog. does the poem have to make sense. does the poem have to love you back.

if i break a glass, will the poem appear naturally? or is the act of breaking the glass human-enough. the shards of my life glittering out beneath me - do i have to write the poem, or is it self-evident in the pile of glass splinters? i cannot grasp this world the way other people can. regardless, i endeavor to touch - even the mess - very gently.

i broke my toenail against my coffee table recently. i released a bug outdoors. i made coffee. i walked my dog.

i didn't write a poem about any of these things.

something else, then. existing without humanity.

oof

i am nooooot locked the fuck in. im locked the fuck out. call the locksmith

was it casual when you shoved him off the cliff and then stood over his corpse watching the warmth and light slowly fade from his familiar blue eyes was it casual when his father said you made his son the happiest he'd ever seen his baby boy was it casual when his parents gave you the honor of being the pallbearer when you stood amongst his brothers and carried the corpse you'd made to the hollowed ground was it casual when you were so lost in your own mind standing above his grave that you smeared the dirt of his grave across your chest (you killed him. it doesn't mean you didn't love him.)

they hate me for my joy and whimsy. and also the fact that my music is super loud and i am dropping chocolate cookie crumbs on their notes. but mostly by charming and endearing aura. but also kind of the fact that i keep complaining that i'm bored and i want to go for a walk. but at the end of the day its because of the skip in my step, the sparkle in my eye, and the joy in my heart.

babe your suffering is not noble. your self destructive habits do not make you cool. your self loathing does not make you fun to be around. go for a walk. drink some water. wash your hair. i promise you can be happy and loved.