Poetic Divergence

The Invisible Rulebook

A Poem by Eric Pollok

A simple “Hi,” a casual query, A gesture meant to welcome, light and cheery. But in that flash, a world unseen takes hold, A social quiz, a story to unfold. No script prepared, no answers in my hand, A pop quiz sprung, across this foreign land. They smile, they beam, they wait for warm reply, While inner chaos fills my anxious eye.

Not anti-social, not a heart of stone, Just seeking calm, a space to call my own. This rulebook vast, by others memorized, A foreign tongue, by me still not surmised. “How’s your day?” a question, light and brief, For me, a mountain, steeped in social grief. A mental Rubik’s Cube, blindfolded spun, To guess the answer, ‘til the day is done.

What do they want? A joke? A thought profound? I search for clues, on unfamiliar ground. One wrong move, and I’m the awkward one, Who mumbles weather, then is quickly gone. A silent film, where every subtle glance, A coded message, in this social dance. They mean it well, this truth I understand, But still, I stumble, lost within the sand.

A stage awaits, for plays I didn’t try, To act a part, beneath a watchful eye. Should I nod? How much small talk can I make? Before my voice begins to sound like fake? The pressure mounts, a heavy, unseen shroud, To fit the mold, within the chattering crowd. My heart beats fast, a frantic, urgent drum, The simple greeting, leaves my spirit numb.

I wish for grace, a silent, knowing plea, “I get it if you’re not ready for a chat right now, but I hope you’re having a great day!” A little space, where difference can reside, No forced performance, where true feelings hide. To breathe, to pause, to just exist and be, Without the weight of false conformity. For operating systems, not all are the same, Some dial-up slow, some blazing with their flame.

So if you see me, navigating slow, Just know the effort, in the ebb and flow. No avoidance here, no wish to disappear, Just wrestling demons, banishing all fear. A little empathy, a gentle, knowing gaze, To light the path, through these bewildering maze. To skip the intro, on this social play, And find acceptance, at the close of day.

For understanding, not a changing plea, But simply seeing, all that I can be. The quiet effort, the internal strife, The subtle currents, of a different life. And if I stumble, or my words don’t land, A little patience, from your open hand. For in this world, where not all fit the mold, A silent story, waiting to unfold.

The Weight of Unseen Energy

A Poem by Eric Pollok

Social exchanges, framed as light and free, A casual chat, for all the world to see. But for some souls, an unseen cost they bear, A marathon of mind, a constant, silent prayer. While others glide, with effortless design, My mental energy, I must assign. To choose each word, to read each subtle cue, A performance staged, in every rendezvous.

A game of rules, unknown and out of sight, I seek the pathway, in the fading light. Is politeness hidden in their question’s guise? Or genuine interest, reflected in their eyes? Small talk, a burden, heavy on my soul, To fit the mold, and make myself feel whole. The pressure mounts, a constant, silent drone, To keep the conversation, on a balanced stone.

A wall unseen, between my soul and yours, Of unspoken rules, and social doors. I hear the laughter, see the easy grace, But feel a chasm, in this crowded space. To join the dance, requires a leap of faith, Yet fear of stumbling, holds me in its wraith. The isolation deep, a profound, aching truth, A silent swimmer, in my lonely youth.

I long to bridge, this ocean, wide and deep, But every effort, makes my spirit weep. To force connection, drains my weary core, And pulls me back, to loneliness once more. Like opening a bathroom door by mistake, I stumble backward, for goodness gracious sake! A sudden spotlight, where no actor thrives, Just awkward fumbling, where confusion strives.

The heavy silence, after words are flown, A mental replay, on a loop I’ve known. Did I give too much? Too little, did I share? The Rubik’s Cube of nuance, hard to bear. My internal critic, a relentless guide, Analyzing motives, where no truths reside. A never-ending movie, with no final scene, Just Captain Awkward, and his troubled mien.

This constant performance, a draining, heavy toll, To be accepted, to make myself feel whole. It steals my essence, drains my vibrant light, Leaving me hollow, in the fading night. For truth be told, I long to just be me, Without the effort, for all the world to see. A constant struggle, to maintain my pace, In a world that doesn’t offer ample space.

The need for calm, for quiet, sacred hours, To charge my spirit, like thirsty, wilting flowers. To understand, that not all souls are made, For constant chatter, in this social parade. A different rhythm, a softer, gentle hum, A peaceful quiet, where anxieties succumb. And if you see me, seeking solace deep, Just know the silent battles, that my spirit keep.

Sensory Symphony, Overwhelming Echoes

A Poem by Eric Pollok

The world, a buffet, open, wide, and free, But for my senses, an assault for me. The grocery store, a vibrant, jarring hue, Of bright, harsh lights, that pierce me through and through. The scanner’s beep, a siren’s urgent call, Announcing chaos, standing proud and tall. A symphony of scents, that mix and blend, A fragrant chaos, with no visible end.

From distant aisles, the perfume’s heavy spray, A superpower, that begins my weary day. The chatter constant, carts that loudly clatter, A human orchestra, that makes my spirit shatter. For others, background, easily ignored, For me, a rock band, loudly still adored. Each single note, a new and piercing sound, My brain o’erwhelmed, on unfamiliar ground.

Some days, one sense, a burden, hard to bear, But on the bad ones, all unite to snare. A party thrown, where senses wildly reel, And I’m the victim, forced to truly feel. My brain, a bluescreen, frozen, stark, and still, A full shutdown, against my weary will. A rollercoaster, that I didn’t choose, A sensory torment, that my spirit loses.

The "small" overloads, a marathon in mind, I haven’t moved, yet exhaustion I still find. To pick out food, a task of life and death, To speak to cashiers, holding every breath. To navigate the aisles, a victory won, Without becoming, a human wrecking gun. The pressure constant, to “just handle it,” A flaming sword, upon a unicycle, fit.

Imagine walking, into such a room, Where lights are harsh, dispelling every gloom. Sounds cranked to “alien invasion” high, Each sensation vying, for my weary eye. For others, moments, in a bustling street, For me, a constant, bittersweet retreat. A chaotic blur, where all sensations blend, No sweet escape, until the bitter end.

My mind in overdrive, my heart that pounds, All I desire, are quiet, peaceful sounds. To flee the noise, the crushing, loud array, But still, I push, through each and every day. A marshmallow wall, that grows with every step, I try to ignore, but still my senses kept. A real, overwhelming, constant, heavy strife, A silent struggle, in this noisy life.

It's not dramatic, no, it's truly so, This amplified experience, in constant flow. I cannot “get over,” or “power through,” It’s an intrinsic part, of all I do. Each sound, each light, each texture, amplified, Like holding breath, with nowhere left to hide. It’s truly draining, weary, and so deep, A constant battle, that my spirit keeps.

The Paradox of Normal

A Poem by Eric Pollok

An abnormal person, seeking normal grace, A constant effort, to find my rightful place. To blend, to fade, to meet the world's demands, A foreign country, with unwritten sands. I strive for stillness, unnoticed and unseen, Yet somehow stumble, on this fragile scene. The harder I try, the more I seem to show, A strange invisibility, in constant flow.

For every choice, a layer deep inside, Of mental processing, where shadows hide. How I’m perceived, how actions meet the norm, A balancing act, in this societal storm. To be myself, or to be well-received? An exhausting tension, rarely truly eased. A tightrope walk, on conversations’ thread, Weighing each word, before it’s truly said.

Rehearsed responses, in my head they play, Analyzing outcomes, every single day. Small talk, greetings, eye contact, a conscious art, A draining effort, tearing me apart. Not that I shun connection, no, not so, But understanding it, a complex, heavy show. Each smile, each nod, each pause, deliberate and slow, Adjusting, calibrating, to make the moments glow.

To meet expectations, rarely understood, A surface calm, where inner struggles stood. If they could see, the thought, the energy I give, Perhaps more patience, would truly help me live. No need for pity, no sympathy I crave, Just understanding, what my spirit saves. This effort isn’t wanting to be new, But just surviving, in a world not built for you.

To be seen, not “fixed,” my essence to embrace, My different being, in its rightful space. To recognize, my way of life, it’s true, Doesn’t need changing, just respect from you. The focus often, how I can fit in, Become “normal,” where real fears begin. But helping hands, though kindly they may reach, Can feel dismissive, beyond their simple speech.

I yearn for empathy, a judgment-free embrace, Understanding offered, in this challenging space. Allowing me to be, even if it means, Not social graces, or perfect, flowing scenes. Patience, a gift, when I’m not quick to start, When social scripts, tear my true self apart. Just time and knowing, makes the world feel clear, A different path, where all my truths appear.

I am not asking, for the world to sway, Just for my true self, to shine in open day. I’m not broken, just a different hue, And difference needs no fixing, only truth. This quiet effort, the words I hold within, Are echoes of a life, where self-love can begin. To be appreciated, when my spirit tries, And seen completely, through discerning eyes.

The Comedian’s Plea

A Poem by Eric Pollok

A stranger greets me, in the store’s bright aisle, I know they mean well, with their beaming smile. But instantly, a quiz I didn’t dread, A pop quiz sprung, inside my anxious head. “How’s your day?” a question, light and clear, I search for answers, battling my fear. No script, no lines, no acting school I’ve known, Just trying to buy bread, and be left alone.

A stage awaits, I didn't audition for, Must I perform? My social batteries are low. To smile, to nod, to make small talk, and then, Wonder if I sound like a robot, once again. This Rubik’s Cube, I try to solve it blind, What are they looking for? A cheerful, witty mind? A joke? A thought profound? I’m left to guess, One wrong answer, leads to social stress.

I mumble weather, shuffle quickly by, Like I’ve solved a crime, beneath a curious eye. And trying to explain, it sounds so absurd, Like I’m rejecting kindness, with every single word. Not anti-social, not allergic to a soul, Just needing moments, to regain control. Before anxiety, makes my spirit faint, A social labyrinth, painted with a saint.

The unspoken rulebook, everyone has learned, While I’m on chapter one, still not discerned. “How’s your day?” a question, simple, yet so deep, The hardest on Earth, secrets it does keep. If only greetings, came with such a plea, “I get it if you’re not ready for a chat right now, but I hope you’re having a great day!” I’d be over the moon, my spirit would rejoice, A world that gets it, with a gentle, softer voice.

No world domination, no stopping all the “hi’s,” Just understanding, shining in their eyes. That social energy, it differs, day by day, And needing space, is perfectly okay. Like operating systems, some Windows, some Mac, Some dial-up struggles, trying to get back. So if you see me, trying to unwind, Just know the effort, that’s within my mind.

I’m not avoiding, just a careful soul, Trying to figure out, and gain control. Should I engage? Or be a butterfly? A little empathy, beneath a gentle sky. A smile that says, “I get it, I can see,” The best of greetings, meant for folks like me. To press “skip intro,” on these social plays, And find acceptance, in a million ways.

For in this dance, of human give and take, A touch of humor, for goodness gracious sake! To laugh at awkwardness, to find a lighter stride, And let the weirdness, with our spirits ride. A secret cheat code, for connecting near, Without the script, to conquer every fear. It just flows outward, a natural, easy art, A way to lighten, every heavy heart.

The Unseen Costs of Connection

A Poem by Eric Pollok

Social interactions, a seemingly simple art, A casual conversation, played out from the start. But for some souls, an unseen cost they bear, A marathon of mind, a silent, heavy prayer. While others glide, with effortless display, I spend my energy, in a draining way. To choose each word, to gauge the proper tone, Like running a marathon, on a track unknown.

A game of rules, invisible and vast, I seek the answers, from a distant past. Is it politeness, or a genuine desire? Do I make small talk, or let the flames expire? The uncertainty, a burden I must face, Leading to anxiety, in this hurried pace. Like guessing signs, a “Hug Me” or “Exit Only,” I guess and pray, not to be escorted lowly.

What others see, as “just being social,” free, For me, a performance, for all the world to see. A constant weight, unseen by every eye, To fit, to understand, beneath a judging sky. Each interaction, a chore, a heavy toll, Leaving me drained, beyond my own control. Not lack of joy, but effort I must lend, A changing script, until the weary end.

A silent wall, between my soul and yours, Of unspoken rules, and tightly bolted doors. I hear the chatter, see the easy flow, But stand apart, where cold winds softly blow. An invisible moat, where others swim with ease, I try to cross, but only find unease. Treading water, in this sea of awkwardness, Hoping not to drown, in silent, deep distress.

I hear the whispers, of the joyful sound, Too anxious, unsure, on unyielding ground. To join the moment, feels so forced and strange, The pressure suffocates, beyond my mental range. Each stumble, every word that lands awry, The wrong door opened, beneath a watchful eye. The kid who walks, into the bathroom’s gaze, Then backs out slowly, lost in awkward haze.

The Isolation deep, a profound, aching truth, The last to notice, in my awkward youth. No “No Entry” sign, for me to clearly see, Just half-way through the buffet, tragically. I want to connect, with every fiber of my being, But bridging gaps, is a draining, weary seeing. And often I retreat, to solitude once more, Feeling more alone, than I have felt before.

The social replay, loops within my head, Each word, each pause, each thing I might have said. A bad sitcom, that never truly ends, Critiquing gestures, among my dearest friends. Did I sound stiff? Too chatty, or too slow? Did smiles appear? Or did my acting show? The overthinking, a spiral, deep and vast, A haunting loop, from shadows of the past.

The Universe of One Turning

A Poem by Eric Pollok

What if everything you think you know, Is just a reflection, in a gentle flow? The truth not held, but to surrender’s grace, A river carrying, in this boundless space. Misunderstood, a heavy, aching plea, My words not landing, for the world to see. A constant cycle, of miscommunication’s hold, A fog no other sees, a story to unfold.

Am I speaking ancient, in a dialect deep? A whispered language, that my spirit keeps. Frustrating, draining, this effort, day by day, To make them “get it,” in a normal, common way. Like algebra, erasing, mid-equation’s line, My emotional core, begins to slowly pine. Tired of explaining, in ways they can’t relate, My struggles dismissed, sealed by cruelest fate.

“Not that big a deal,” “it’s not so hard,” they say, Invalidating feelings, that darken every day. My struggles invisible, a silent, inner fight, Not fitting frameworks, in their guiding light. Convincing others, of this truth I feel, Like proving tiredness, after days unreal. “Just chill out,” they offer, with a casual grace, While I’m awake for days, in this demanding race.

“Universe, one turning,” a thought that often gleams, This constant flowing, through my waking dreams. Of transformation, in each breath and beat, Cells dying, reborn, a dance of pure retreat. No vast cosmos, stays still, not for a moment’s hold, A perpetual motion, brave and deeply bold. From Latin origins, universum’s name, “One single,” “turned,” igniting ancient flame.

A unified entity, encompassing all things, The totality of being, where meaning softly sings. Into Middle English, “universe” it came, A single turning, echoing its name. One eternal moment, of continuous change, We’re all inseparable, in this cosmic range. A marathon of mind, in a world of golf carts fast, I try to keep up, in shadows that are cast.

A game of rules, I cannot truly see, A puzzling question, constantly for me. Politeness hidden? Or true interest’s gleam? Small talk to be friendly? Or a fading, waking dream? No way to know, this uncertainty takes hold, Anxiety’s grip, a story to be told. A “Hug Me” sign, or “Exit Only” plain? I guess and pray, avoiding bitter pain.

A subtle performance, in this social play, The changing script, obscures my honest way. An invisible wall, a moat I try to swim, No one can see it, by a fading, watery dim. I hear the conversations, laughter, easy light, But stand apart, in this confusing night. The kid who opens, bathroom door by chance, Awkwardly retreating, from the social dance.

The isolation deep, a truth I cannot hide, The last to notice, on this social tide. I want to connect, with every fiber of my being, But bridging gaps, is a draining, weary seeing. And often I retreat, to solitude once more, Feeling more alone, than I have felt before. The morning stillness, where my thoughts take flight, Reflecting questions, in the soft, dawn light.

The Stimming Song

A Poem by Eric Pollok

If there’s one thing, that keeps me on the ground, And earns me strange looks, all the world around, It’s my dear stims, a rhythm deep and true, Like pacing, spinning, in all that I do. Not just a habit, no, a strategy to live, A human metronome, with solace it does give. A forty-four-year-old, a spinning, turning man, Not well-adjusted, in the world’s discerning plan.

Pacing, a walking meditation, soft and low, Back and forth, my untangled thoughts will flow. A fan of chaos, calming every nerve, I lose myself within, its gentle, winding curve. Sometimes I wake, mid-stride, and wonder where, The laps I’ve walked, on kitchen floors, with care. The turns at ends, a sneaky, hidden grace, A spinning secret, in this busy, turning space.

My body’s closet, messy and so vast, I walk around it, hoping things hold fast. My brain juggles, ideas, thoughts untold, And walking circles, makes the story bold. My brain’s a meeting, pacing in the room, As if that makes it, dissipate all gloom. I know it bothers, silently I hear, “Oh great, he goes again,” a subtle, anxious fear.

“Is this a walk? A breakdown, near at hand?” I fight the urge, to make them understand. “Pacing calms me,” the truth I want to share, But sit there calmly, for their sake, with care. My fidgeting, no better for their gaze, A quiet tremor, in a social haze. And spinning, oh, the dizzy, floaty thrill, A secret recharge, that my brain does fill.

Soothing, energizing, a button I can press, The world not built, for adult spinners, I confess. Kids get a pass, but older, not the same, So I hide it, playing a hidden, quiet game. A little spin, while pacing, a “turn” I call, Or twirl in private, answering freedom’s call. My brain embraces chaos, in this whirling glee, A shiny distraction, for all the world to see.

I look like toddlers, with fruit snacks too much had, But in those moments, the world feels less than bad. My brain reboots, a refresh, soft and kind, A frozen webpage, left far, far behind. Sensitive to balance, to vibration’s gentle hum, I feel each wobble, as new senses come. The floor vibrates, a subtle, sweet delight, Reminding me of life, in fading, fading light.

It's misunderstood, this rhythmic, inner need, “What’s he doing?” planting a curious seed. “Organizing files,” my brain’s internal plea, “Just let me pace and spin, and all will truly be.” A pressure cooker, in a cramped, waiting room, I wait to blow off steam, dispelling inner gloom. Taking off too-tight shoes, pure relief I find, A lifeline treasured, leaving worries far behind.

The Performance of Self

A Poem by Eric Pollok

I spend my time, keeping up with others’ will, A constant mission, standing ever still. Reading lines, anticipating every plea, And striving for perfection, for all the world to see. But expectations shift, no warning in their flight, The goalpost moves, unseen in fading light. I stand confused, a puzzle left untold, They changed the rules, a story to unfold.

Like invisible ink, the script begins to blur, I’ve met their wishes, but the change they don defer. They don’t perceive, the game has been transformed, While I’m performing, by expectation warmed. A mental gymnastics, trying to make it clear, Where I went wrong, in this confusing sphere. They read a chapter, I’m on a different page, Oblivious to shifts, on this demanding stage.

A puzzle contest, with a picture changed, The rules are constant, but the scene’s estranged. The pieces same, but purpose now is new, They carry on, with nothing to undo. A little frustrating, yet a funny plight, They’ll never know, they moved the guiding light. They think I’m lost, confused within the maze, While I keep up, with their evolving haze.

Humor, my ally, a trampoline of mind, I bounce upon it, when I’m truly stuck behind. Laughter, a power, easing every strain, From awkward moments, banishing all pain. A hidden superpower, turning gloom to light, If jokes don’t land, I laugh with all my might. The real humor, in how not funny things, A gentle moment, where my spirit sings.

To make them chuckle, a connection deep, The conversation flows, secrets I can keep. No Captain Awkward, just me, silly and free, Trying to lighten, for all the world to see. A sneaky way, to break down every wall, Though social rules, I might still fail to call. A cheat code found, to connect with easy grace, No script required, in this expansive space.

Humor, a safety net, when anxieties arise, A small comment, beneath their watchful eyes. A random quirk, to find my rightful place, In conversations, with a gentle, calming pace. A soft disguise, from quiet, awkward me, A ripple of laughter, flowing wild and free. If things go sideways, a joke, a playful plea, The pressure melts away, for all the world to see.

It's not just laughter, for others’ happy cheer, But solace found, banishing every fear. In my own skin, more comfortable I grow, The social thing, a manageable, gentle flow. And that’s a win, a victory I embrace, To find my footing, in this challenging space. The paradox of self, in humor’s gentle art, A different journey, playing out its part.

The Noodle in the Soup

A Poem by Eric Pollok

I dive in deep, to the absurdity of life, One noodle of thought, cutting through the strife. For when the world, is beautifully bizarre, Why not be weird, beneath a shining star? If clarity arrives, I’ll stop before the fray, Of other versions, in another dimension’s sway. But for now, I’m floating, in the cosmic brew, A noodle pondering, what’s truly, deeply true.

This conversation, a philosophical quest, My random thoughts, put to the universe’s test. Perhaps I’m onto something, grand and deeply vast, Unlocking mysteries, from ages long since passed. Or just the guy, at parties, strange and bold, Who turned a soup thought, into a story told. Either way, an impression I have made, A silent victory, in this strange parade.

The awful quiet, when my words subside, A heavy fog, where silent thoughts reside. Their faces blank, a secret code to read, Impressed? Or shocked? Planting a curious seed. Apologize? Or bask in genius’ light? Their eyes dart quickly, searching for the flight. An awkward storm, created by my sound, A silent vacuum, on this dizzying ground.

“Okay, I get it,” a nervous, patching plea, My over-explanation, flowing wild and free. A quick retreat, a mental “back” I crave, But damage done, no moment I can save. And then, the laughter, genuine and deep, At my own antics, secrets I still keep. To cope with chaos, in this quirky, playful dance, Not tears, but laughter, in a happy, knowing trance.

Their awkward chiming, trying to make sense, Of wild rambling, with a quiet, veiled pretense. “Yeah, totally, time’s an illusion too,” “And donuts fit, with skies of brightest blue.” They scramble, politely, to keep up with my mind, An Improv game, where logic’s left behind. A strange belief, that I create such deep, Philosophical moments, while the world does sleep.

My random thoughts, a spark, a guiding flame, Even if they wonder, “Why did I play this game?” I’ll never know, once off the mental rails, No stopping this train, through winding, cosmic trails. The silent void, where thoughts begin to cease, They’re too polite, to shatter inner peace. My brain ignites, a thousand scenarios bright, Genius? Or weirdo? In the fading, mental light.

A strange double down, when tension starts to rise, More material given, to their curious eyes. “The universe, a soup, and we are floating there,” More nervous laughter, hanging in the air. They nod so slowly, in a deep, internal thought, While asking secretly, “What maze have I been caught?” Basking in absurdity, with no clear, certain aim, Asking if reality, is just a cosmic game.

The moment when, the awkwardness is seen, A palpable presence, in this strange, surreal scene. “Okay, I should stop,” before a crisis looms, But deep in words, beyond all social rooms. One last flourish, before my exit’s plea, “Stare at a spoon, a key to set you free.” They’ll leave, perhaps, and never speak again, Or try to “be normal,” hiding inner pain.

I’ll wonder, “Did they get it?” “Were they just polite?” “Did thoughts resonate?” In the fading, silent night. The village weirdo, living in this haze, But honesty remains, through all these passing days. I’ll keep on doing, what is truly me, And stumble into theories, for all the world to see. Or leave them wondering, with a curious glance, What in the world, just happened, in this cosmic dance.

The Echo of a Greeting

A Poem by Eric Pollok

When friendly voices in a store resound, Or hallways echo, on familiar ground, A greeting offered, with a smile so bright, Intention good, but landing not quite right. They mean to welcome, with a gentle plea, But deep within, anxiety stirs in me. A sudden quiz, for which I didn’t learn, A social labyrinth, at every single turn.

“How’s your day?” a question, light and brief, Expects a cheer, but brings my soul to grief. I don’t know you, no script for this exchange, An imposition, on my inner range. A simple task, a walk, a quiet quest, Becomes a social drama, putting me to test. Overwhelming waves, in a tranquil, silent sea, A common gesture, truly daunting me.

It's not mere words, this greeting’s hidden art, It’s expectation, tearing me apart. To act a way, that doesn’t feel my own, A forced performance, on a stage unknown. I appreciate the thought, I truly do, But world’s demands, don’t match my inner view. A constant echo, in my sensitive mind, That I am different, left so far behind.

The hurtful part, no awareness in their gaze, Of sensory overload, through anxious haze. No thought of boundaries, no choice to freely give, Just their assumptions, on how I should live. On autopilot, others seem to roam, While I work harder, yearning for my home. Emotionally draining, a relentless fight, My heart beats fast, in a silent, inner night.

My mind scrambles, seeking what to say, My body tenses, through the weary day. It’s not normal for me, this immense demand, A constant challenge, through this social land. This situation, builds up, day by day, A reminder constant, I don’t fit their way. I’m isolated, lost within the crowd, The rules unknown, spoken not aloud.

A lack of empathy, for struggles deep and wide, No thought for feelings, where my true self hides. They don’t consider, diverse human need, Just plant expectations, like a forceful seed. No choice offered, no space to simply be, My needs invisible, for all the world to see. Not “shy” or “antisocial,” words they softly cast, But a different world, from first unto the last.

These simple moments, seemingly so light, Are painful mirrors, in the fading light. A pressure rising, to perform and try, While understanding, slowly passes by. “Don’t overthink it,” easy words they speak, “Everyone feels awkward,” leaving me so weak. But it’s not words alone, this social construct grand, A deeper meaning, I can’t make them understand.

I try to explain, but deeper I descend, Misunderstood, until the bitter end. Not rejecting kindness, no, it's never true, Just constant forcing, in all that I do. No room for me, in worlds they built with ease, Around their norms, bringing my soul no peace. I long for worlds, where all are seen and heard, Where difference matters, in every gentle word.

Acknowledgement, of ways so truly diverse, No need to judge, or to my soul immerse. Kindness can be given, without constant plea, To meet me where I am, and simply let me be. An invisible rulebook, I’m compelled to heed, A social script, planting a bitter seed. My mind bewildered, body tense and slow, To force a smile, where no true feelings flow.

This expectation, to conform and try, A constant reminder, beneath a silent sky. I need the space, the freedom to abide, Without conforming, with nothing left to hide. But world imposes, expectations deep and vast, Leaving me drained, my energy held fast. In these moments, misunderstood I feel, A silent battle, wonderfully, truly real.

The Tightrope of Connection

A Poem by Eric Pollok

Each conversation, a tightrope stretched so thin, My words are weighed, before they can begin. The tone, the posture, scrutinized with care, Decoding rules, that others seem to share. Rehearsed responses, in my head they spin, Analyzing outcomes, from deep within. Simple social norms, a conscious, tiring art, Small talk, greetings, tearing me apart.

It's not I flee connection, or its warm embrace, But understanding it, requires a different pace. Layered complexities, they fail to see, The subtle effort, that truly burdens me. Each smile, each nod, each pause, deliberately done, Adjusting, calibrating, beneath the setting sun. To meet their wishes, though unclear they seem, A silent labor, a demanding, waking dream.

If they could glimpse, beneath the calm façade, The thought, the energy, meticulously laid. They’d see the effort, in what seems so light, A hidden struggle, in the fading light. I don’t seek pity, no, nor sympathy’s soft hand, But understanding, in this foreign land. This effort isn’t wanting to be new, But just surviving, in a world not built for you.

If they could see, the invisible work I bear, More patience offered, with a gentle, loving prayer. When I might falter, or my words fall short, More appreciation, for my soul’s report. It’s not about pity, but the picture clear, The full true vision, banishing all fear. My dedication, for souls misunderstood, Who struggle daily, as they always should.

To those who feel different, out of step and strange, This book’s a mirror, across life’s wide range. For struggling spirits, in spaces not their own, The weight of “other,” where true longing’s sown. Your experiences matter, your voice deserves to rise, Your perspective precious, seen through knowing eyes. You are not alone, in these pages, you may find, Belonging, validation, for your weary mind.

My wife, my window, into the ordinary, Her perspective teaches, helping me to see. The patterns, rhythms, of a world unknown, Through her, I grasp, what others freely own. Though I may never fully belong within, Her presence offers, a way for me to win. To see more clearly, in this confusing place, For which I’m grateful, with endless, gentle grace.

My anchor, teacher, partner, strong and true, I try to honor, all you mean to do. My small attempt, to express my love and deep regard, For all you are, a shining, bright reward. “Please! Understand Me,” a whisper, soft and low, A silent plea, in life’s confusing flow. The dedication written, with a heartfelt plea, For understanding, for all the world to see.

The essence captured, in a gentle, honest plea, For empathy, for all the world to see. No changing self, but recognizing grace, For differences existing, in this shared space. An environment, where judgment disappears, And choices blossom, calming all my fears. For all are welcome, in this inclusive stand, A compassionate space, across the waiting land.

The Shifting Current

A Poem by Eric Pollok

What if everything you think you know and grasp, Is just a reflection, in a fleeting, gentle clasp? The truth not held, but to surrender, deep and wide, A river carrying, with a relentless, gentle tide. One turning, one change, what does it truly mean? A cosmic flow, through every waking scene. Cells dying, reborn, in an endless, graceful dance, Nothing stays still, not for a moment’s glance.

From Latin “universum,” one and turned in deep embrace, Everything combined, in a unified, single space. Ancient ideas echoing, of a cosmos, vast and grand, A single system, through all of time’s long sand. Into Middle English, “universe” it came, The totality of being, whispering its name. One continuous change, inseparable we are, A cosmic dance, beneath a distant star.

The silent hours, before the day takes hold, My thoughts arising, stories to unfold. The pull of something, vast and yet unknown, The more I grasp it, the more it’s softly flown. But is the slipping, truly what it’s for? Life not to be held, but experienced to its core. To unfold each moment, as it’s meant to be, A curious spirit, eternally seeking free.

Exploring questions, puzzling to mankind, The nature of reality, left far behind. The meaning of life, time’s elusive art, No answers claimed, but a joy within my heart. Camus’s absurd, a freedom to embrace, Meaning in change, at a relentless, gentle pace. To let go of certainty, a richness to unfold, Embracing mystery, a story to be told.

The earth is spinning, at a furious, hidden pace, Sixty-seven thousand, through the cosmic space. And here I am, sometimes so static, trapped in thought, But not stuck at all, a lesson dearly bought. I’m hurtling through, on this celestial stone, With blood rushing, in a rhythm all its own. Lungs expanding, contracting, soft and low, No effort needed, in this constant, gentle flow.

The word "change," through time, its meaning shifts and turns, From Old French “changier,” a lesson softly learns. To alter, exchange, a purpose practical and deep, From Late Latin “cambiare,” secrets it does keep. Of trade and barter, ancient echoes sound, Perhaps from Celtic “cambio,” on a common ground. “I exchange,” it whispers, through the ages vast, A river flowing, where meanings softly cast.

Our words, they carry, echoes from the past, Subtle layers clinging, meanings holding fast. A tiny testament, to language’s long stream, A never-ending motion, in a waking dream. Yet humans resist, this universal flow, We cling so tightly, to all that we have known. To people, ideas, emotions, and to things, As if by sheer will, our spirit softly sings.

But this resistance, separates us so, From human connection, in its gentle flow. Influence not static, a river, clear and deep, Shaping lives and actions, secrets it does keep. An omnipresent force, quietly unseen, Values, emotions, on life’s shifting scene. Each action, word, a ripple, reaching far, Intertwining with others, beneath a distant star.

When guided by empathy, a nurturing, gentle guide, Compassion spreading, with nothing left to hide. Like seeds by wind, a cycle of renewal’s grace, Where trust flourishes, in this shared, human space. But influence mirrors, intentions, dark and light, Manipulative practices, fading into night. Erosion of empathy, a slow and silent drift, From warm compassion, a gradual, subtle rift.

Its course can alter, its waters can be cleared, Beginning with awareness, all doubts are now revered. No action isolated, every choice has power, To shape the world, in this fleeting, precious hour. A word, a glance, a gesture, soft and low, The architects of change, in this eternal flow. Not grand, sweeping movements, but in quiet, hidden grace, Where life truly happens, at its own, slow pace.

The Art of Stopping

A Poem by Eric Pollok

Sometimes I talk, a point I wish to make, As if a cosmic mystery, is mine to break. Then sudden silence, in the vibrant room, I’ve overdone it, bathed in sudden gloom. Mid-sentence frozen, where words begin to cease, I’ve talked myself into a hole, without a peace. “The universe, a donut,” sounds so strange, Met with confusion, beyond all mental range.

“What did we hear?” their unspoken plea, I scramble, patching, for all the world to see. To make it make sense, but deeper I descend, Backpedaling mid-air, until the bitter end. Hyper aware, I’m the only one enjoying this, A one-man show, missing all the bliss. The audience not asking, for this grand display, My internal monologue, leading me astray.

“Maybe too far,” a thought begins to bloom, But too much excitement, fills this mental room. I can’t help it, once my words begin to flow, I take the conversation, where no one wants to go. A new trick learned, if urges wild appear, I stop mid-sentence, banishing all fear. A social chicken game, with myself I play, Avoiding spirals, through the awkward, passing day.

But still, temptation, pulls me to the edge, To ride the crazy train, on a precarious ledge. If off the rails, why not embrace the ride? At least a story, where laughter can reside. The awkward quiet, when the speech is done, Too late to undo, beneath the setting sun. “Time’s an illusion,” I declare with final grace, Waiting for the earth, to swallow up this space.

The room, still silent, foggy, soft and deep, Their faces scanned, secrets they do keep. Impressed? Or shocked? Or wanting to escape? Their eyes dart quickly, trying to reshape. I’ll “Okay, okay, I get it,” a nervous, patching plea, My over-explanation, flowing wild and free. A quick retreat, a mental “back” I crave, But damage done, no moment I can save.

And then, the laughter, genuine and deep, At my own antics, secrets I still keep. To cope with chaos, in this quirky, playful dance, Not tears, but laughter, in a happy, knowing trance. Their awkward chiming, trying to make sense, Of wild rambling, with a quiet, veiled pretense. “Yeah, totally, time’s an illusion too,” “And donuts fit, with skies of brightest blue.”

They scramble, politely, to keep up with my mind, An improv game, where logic’s left behind. A strange belief, that I create such deep, Philosophical moments, while the world does sleep. My random thoughts, a spark, a guiding flame, Even if they wonder, “Why did I play this game?” I’ll never know, once off the mental rails, No stopping this train, through winding, cosmic trails.

The silent void, where thoughts begin to cease, They’re too polite, to shatter inner peace. My brain ignites, a thousand scenarios bright, Genius? Or weirdo? In the fading, mental light. A strange double down, when tension starts to rise, More material given, to their curious eyes. “The universe, a soup, and we are floating there,” More nervous laughter, hanging in the air.

They nod so slowly, in a deep, internal thought, While asking secretly, “What maze have I been caught?” Basking in absurdity, with no clear, certain aim, Asking if reality, is just a cosmic game. The moment when, the awkwardness is seen, A palpable presence, in this strange, surreal scene. “Okay, I should stop,” before a crisis looms, But deep in words, beyond all social rooms.

One last flourish, before my exit’s plea, “Stare at a spoon, a key to set you free.” They’ll leave, perhaps, and never speak again, Or try to “be normal,” hiding inner pain. I’ll wonder, “Did they get it?” “Were they just polite?” “Did thoughts resonate?” In the fading, silent night. The village weirdo, living in this haze, But honesty remains, through all these passing days.

The Quiet Anchor

A Poem by Eric Pollok

To everyone who has ever felt estranged, Misunderstood, with purpose rearranged, This book is for you, in every whispered plea, For those who struggle, to truly just be free. To fit in spaces, never truly made, The weight of “other,” in life’s lonely parade. Who long for knowing, in a world so blind, To beauty of difference, for all of humankind.

Your experiencees matter, in each and every thought, Your voice deserves to echo, lessons dearly bought. Your perspective valued, a light that truly shines, You are not alone, in these unfolding lines. A sense of belonging, validation deep and wide, And hope’s soft whisper, where your truths can hide. My wife, my window, into the ordinary, Her perspective teaches, helping me to see.

The patterns, rhythms, of a world unknown, Through her, I grasp, what others freely own. Though I may never fully belong within, Her presence offers, a way for me to win. To see more clearly, in this confusing place, For which I’m grateful, with endless, gentle grace. My anchor, teacher, partner, strong and true, I try to honor, all you mean to do.

My small attempt, to express my love and deep regard, For all you are, a shining, bright reward. “Please! Understand Me,” a whisper, soft and low, A silent plea, in life’s confusing flow. The dedication written, with a heartfelt plea, For understanding, for all the world to see. The essence captured, in a gentle, honest plea, For empathy, for all the world to see.

No changing self, but recognizing grace, For differences existing, in this shared space. An environment, where judgment disappears, And choices blossom, calming all my fears. For all are welcome, in this inclusive stand, A compassionate space, across the waiting land. The expectation, that everyone should bend, To social norms, until their spirits end.

An invisible rulebook, I’m compelled to heed, A social script, planting a bitter seed. My mind bewildered, body tense and slow, To force a smile, where no true feelings flow. This expectation, to conform and try, A constant reminder, beneath a silent sky. I need the space, the freedom to abide, Without conforming, with nothing left to hide.

But world imposes, expectations deep and vast, Leaving me drained, my energy held fast. In these moments, misunderstood I feel, A silent battle, wonderfully, truly real. The quiet effort, the words I hold within, Are echoes of a life, where self-love can begin. To be appreciated, when my spirit tries, And seen completely, through discerning eyes.

The Absurdity of the Social Maze

A Poem by Eric Pollok

When someone greets me, in the store’s bright light, Or in a hallway, fading into night, I know they mean well, a friendly, gentle plea, But feel like I’ve just been handed, a quiz for me. “How’s your day?” a question, light and clear, I have no script, consumed by sudden fear. A pop quiz sprung, on human connection’s art, While just buying bread, tearing me apart.

It feels like placed on stage, in a play unknown, I didn’t audition, on this public throne. Must I perform? A smile? A subtle nod? How much small talk, before I sound like God? These questions flood, a Rubik’s Cube in mind, Blindfolded turning, seeking what to find. What’s expected? A heartwarming, warm reply? A joke? A thought profound, beneath the judging sky?

It's like a guessing game, a social, curious spree, One wrong answer, the awkward one is me. I mumble weather, shuffle quickly by, Like solving crimes, beneath a watchful eye. The kicker's here, the more I try to explain, The more I sound like rejecting, causing silent pain. Not anti-social, not allergic to a soul, Just needing moments, to regain control.

Before anxiety, makes my spirit faint, A silent scream, within a social saint. The world’s unspoken rulebook, memorized so well, While I’m on chapter one, beneath a silent spell. “How’s your day?” the hardest question, it would seem, A social labyrinth, a perplexing, waking dream. If only greetings, came with such a plea, “I get it if you’re not ready for a chat right now, but I hope you’re having a great day!”

I’d be over the moon, my spirit would rejoice, A world that gets it, with a gentle, softer voice. No world domination, no stopping all the “hi’s,” Just understanding, shining in their eyes. That social energy, it differs, day by day, And needing space, is perfectly okay. Like operating systems, some Windows, some Mac, Some dial-up struggles, trying to get back.

So if you see me, trying to unwind, Just know the effort, that’s within my mind. I’m not avoiding, just a careful soul, Trying to figure out, and gain control. Should I engage? Or be a butterfly? A little empathy, beneath a gentle sky. A smile that says, “I get it, I can see,” The best of greetings, meant for folks like me.

To press “skip intro,” on these social plays, And find acceptance, in a million ways. For in this dance, of human give and take, A touch of humor, for goodness gracious sake! To laugh at awkwardness, to find a lighter stride, And let the weirdness, with our spirits ride. A secret cheat code, for connecting near, Without the script, to conquer every fear.

It just flows outward, a natural, easy art, A way to lighten, every heavy heart. Humor, a safety net, when anxieties arise, A small comment, beneath their watchful eyes. A random quirk, to find my rightful place, In conversations, with a gentle, calming pace. A soft disguise, from quiet, awkward me, A ripple of laughter, flowing wild and free.

The Unseen Wall

A Poem by Eric Pollok

Sometimes it feels, an invisible wall does stand, Between my being, and this social land. Of unspoken rules, and norms I can’t quite grasp, No matter how I try, it holds me in its clasp. Like standing in a moat, unseen by every eye, I’m trying to swim, beneath a silent sky. No one to throw a lifeline, in this troubled sea, Just treading water, in pure confusion’s plea.

I hear the chatter, conversations soft and low, Too anxious, unsure, to let my spirit flow. The right moment to speak, I rarely seem to know, To connect with others, a challenging, heavy show. The pressure to fit in, suffocates my soul, To act like others, taking heavy toll. Each time I try, to cross that barrier’s span, I stumble, speaking words, in a disjointed plan.

Like opening the wrong door, at a party’s gleam, Walk into the bathroom, in a waking, awkward dream. Everyone is staring, as I back away so slow, Tripping over feet, in this confusing, social show. The isolation deep, profound and aching truth, The last to realize, in my silent, lonely youth. “No Entry” sign unseen, at social party’s gate, Halfway through the buffet, sealed by cruelest fate.

I want to connect, with every fiber of my being, But bridging gaps, is a draining, weary seeing. And often I retreat, to solitude once more, Feeling more alone, than I have felt before. Small talk, a burden, complicated, hard to bear, I replay conversations, with a constant, silent prayer. Days later looping, in my restless, troubled mind, Did I give too much detail? Or leave truths behind?

The weather questioned, or my day’s soft plea, I wonder what they really, truly want from me. Polite, or curious? How much should I impart? As someone who knows much, tearing me apart. I bore them deeply, with a thousand times more, Than they ever asked for, from my knowledge’s core. An impromptu TED Talk, on clouds, if asked about, “You asked,” I whisper, pushing every doubt.

These small exchanges, draining, hard to gain, So full of nuance, and hidden, inner pain. What seems simple, to others, light and free, Feels loaded deeply, burdens me. I gauge information, with a constant, careful hand, To sound quite natural, in this uncertain land. Like walking a tightrope, with no clear, guiding way, I sweat in torrents, at the close of every day.

Social interactions, not just mind’s hard toil, But physically draining, from my weary soil. A day of talking, an easy, common thing, For me, a marathon, on silent, weary wing. Hours of socializing, exhausted, spent and deep, My energy consumed, secrets I still keep. A balancing act, until the energy runs out, I hit a wall, consumed by every doubt.

The wall so tall, no ladder to be found, This exhaustion hidden, on unfamiliar ground. I look quite fine, but spent and deeply tired, My mind a computer, constantly expired. Rebooting systems, without a single break, Hours of silence, for goodness gracious sake! To be myself again, requires silent space, A challenging silence, in this hurried, social race.

The Weight of Expectations

A Poem by Eric Pollok

You know, I spend my days, in constant flight, Keeping up with expectations, in the fading light. A mission constant, reading every line, Anticipating whispers, of their strange design. And I deliver, perfectly and true, But goalposts shift, without a single cue. I stand confused, while they go on their way, Oblivious to changes, through the passing day.

Like invisible ink, the rules begin to sway, I do their bidding, in a perfect, flawless way. But somehow, it’s not what they desire, They changed the game, consuming me with fire. A mental gymnastics, trying to discern, Where I went wrong, lessons I must learn. They read a book, but switched the chapter’s plea, Oblivious to shifts, for all the world to see.

“I told you X,” their words, so clear and plain, But did you tell me? Or did the shift remain? A puzzle contest, with a picture changed, Based on one image, carefully arranged. The rules the same, the pieces still I hold, But picture’s new, a story to unfold. They carry on, oblivious, unaware, Like nothing altered, hanging in the air.

Frustrating, yes, but humor fills my soul, They’ll never know, they took a hidden toll. They think I’m lost, confused upon the way, While I keep up, through challenges each day. With their evolving, invisible commands, A silent struggle, across these weary lands. Humor, my ally, a trampoline so bright, I bounce upon it, through the fading light.

Laughter, a power, easing every strain, From awkward moments, banishing all pain. A hidden superpower, turning gloom to light, If jokes don’t land, I laugh with all my might. The real humor, in how not funny things, A gentle moment, where my spirit sings. To make them chuckle, a connection deep, The conversation flows, secrets I still keep.

No Captain Awkward, just me, silly and free, Trying to lighten, for all the world to see. A sneaky way, to break down every wall, Though social rules, I might still fail to call. A cheat code found, to connect with easy grace, No script required, in this expansive space. It just flows outward, a natural, easy art, A way to lighten, every heavy heart.

Humor, a safety net, when anxieties arise, A small comment, beneath their watchful eyes. A random quirk, to find my rightful place, In conversations, with a gentle, calming pace. A soft disguise, from quiet, awkward me, A ripple of laughter, flowing wild and free. If things go sideways, a joke, a playful plea, The pressure melts away, for all the world to see.

It's not just laughter, for others’ happy cheer, But solace found, banishing every fear. In my own skin, more comfortable I grow, The social thing, a manageable, gentle flow. And that’s a win, a victory I embrace, To find my footing, in this challenging space. The paradox of self, in humor’s gentle art, A different journey, playing out its part.

The Inner Storm, The Outer Calm

A Poem by Eric Pollok

One-on-one, a calm and quiet lake, No waves, no confusion, for goodness gracious sake! But throw a group, a chaotic, raging storm, Desperate to avoid, becoming Captain Awkward’s form. The pressure mounts, to parachute and join, I wait for openings, where new thoughts can coin. Too late, or random, words that blurt and cease, Adding awkwardness, denying inner peace.

I keep my head down, quietly I wait, For proper moment, sealed by inner fate. A work in progress, learning to engage, Navigating waters, on this social stage. My emotions rage, an intense, inner storm, But outwardly calm, against the world’s harsh norm. A serene lake hiding, a whirlpool deep inside, A strange disconnect, where feelings softly hide.

So much I feel, expressing little true, I’m not sure why, but it’s nothing to undo. This disconnect, its perks, a subtle art, Outwardly composed, though tearing me apart. Inside, unraveling, unseen by curious eye, The picture of calm, beneath a silent sky. Not suppressing feelings, they run so deep and vast, But do not show, from first unto the last.

An odd phenomenon, a bundle, tightly bound, Of intense feelings, on a tranquil, quiet ground. They assume I’m unaffected, or aloof, they say, But a tempest rages, through each and every day. And I’m okay with that, it’s part of who I am, A silent witness, to my inner, hidden jam. As I reflect, on everything I’ve shared, A gentle smile, beyond all others’ cared.

Understanding self, a messy, ongoing plea, Sometimes frustrating, but worthwhile, for me. I’ve spent much time, explaining to the crowd, Hoping they’d “get it,” speaking out aloud. But understanding me, is not convincing them, To see my world, a shining, precious gem. It’s giving self the space, to simply just exist, Without apology, by inner freedom kissed.

Moments will still come, when they won’t quite grasp, And honestly, that’s fine, in a gentle, knowing clasp. I can’t control, what others think or feel, But how I approach, makes inner solace real. Self-acceptance’s key, to living with the strife, The discomfort quiet, of misunderstood life. Days no one listens, struggles to convey, What’s in my head, through each and every day.

Social norms overwhelming, a heavy, silent plea, But it’s okay to be different, just to truly be. To not fit molds, that others seem to chase, For strength lies here, in my authentic space. So if you’re reading, feeling out of place, Or always trying, to explain, with weary grace, Take a deep breath, you’re not alone, it’s true, The best understanding, comes from inside of you.

No need to be "fixed," worthy of love’s embrace, Kindness, respect, in this authentic space. You are enough, just as you are, it’s plain, The world may never get me, easing every pain. But I understand me, and that’s okay at last, A final thought, a shadow gently cast. The inner storm, the outer calm, a silent art, A journey inward, playing out its part.

The Labyrinth of Being

A Poem by Eric Pollok

At the end of day, life’s a maze I roam, No one designed it, calling it my home. The rules confuse me, expectations softly sigh, Each turn a test, beneath a silent sky. A constant struggle, to adapt and blend, A world not made for me, until the very end. But through these challenges, my own path I find, Embracing difference, leaving fears behind.

My strength in uniqueness, a light that starts to gleam, Connecting with others, in a shared, waking dream. I may not fit, the mold they call “normal,” true, But still a place exists, for me and all I do. My strategy, to elevate my soul, Perhaps to help others, making spirits whole. Accept the challenge, inevitable and deep, A natural part of life, secrets it does keep.

Acknowledge emotions, let them softly rise, But don’t let them control, beneath discerning eyes. Focus on positive, opportunities bright, The hidden benefits, shining in the light. Develop growth mindset, a chance to learn and grow, New skills unfolding, in a gentle, steady flow. Be proactive, understanding every plight, Plan for impact, in the fading, mental night.

Build resilience, with self-care’s tender art, Exercise, meditation, soothing every heart. Healthy eating, managing all stress, Bouncing back from challenge, finding true success. Seek support, from trusted friends so dear, Or professionals, calming every fear. Practice flexibility, adjust your mind’s soft sway, Adapting to new moments, through each passing day.

Communicate openly, share your inner plea, To build understanding, for all the world to see. Learn from past, reflect on what was done, Apply those lessons, beneath the setting sun. I don’t always remember, to follow these insights bright, Or put in effort, shining in the fading light. But never stopping, progress slow and true, Persistence matters, in all that I can do.

Each attempt, a step, no matter how it seems, A faltering spirit, chasing waking dreams. My commitment steady, not perfection’s call, Just better than yesterday, standing strong and tall. I’ve never seen myself, as smart or wise, Though people tell me so, with honest, curious eyes. Knowledgeable, insightful, words they softly cast, A sentiment not embraced, from first unto the last.

Remembering facts, regurgitating all, But wisdom deeper, beyond their simple call. Understanding, application, more than facts alone, Grasping surface truths, on paths I’ve softly sown. I love to learn, but truly understand, How little I know, in this vast, eternal land. A millisecond, of eternity’s long grace, Aware of vastness, in this boundless, turning space.

My life, a tangled web, of strange coincidences, Catch-22s, contradictions, subtle, fleeting essences. A maze of shifting walls, without a warning’s plea, New exceptions rising, for all the world to see. A peculiar pattern, personal and deep, Universally absurd, secrets it does keep. Life’s linear path, it rarely seems to follow, Am I alone, in this strange, emotional hollow?

An abnormal person, living normal’s plea, Immense effort, to appear what I should be. Blending in, meeting expectations grand, Yet failing spectacularly, across this foreign land. The harder I manage, life in “extraordinary” way, The more I stand out, through each and every day. Reasons unseen, beyond all I can grasp, A strange invisibility, In a silent, aching clasp.

Please, Just Let Me Be.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

In aisles of light and polished floors,

A stranger smiles, and my silence roars.

“How are you?” a phrase so small,

But in my mind, it’s a wrecking ball.

Their kindness, real, yet unaware,

Of what it takes for me to bear

A simple nod, a casual wave

A script I never learned to play.

I see the ease with which they talk,

How lightly through the world they walk.

But every greeting is a test,

My mind ignites, my heart protests.

It’s not disdain I hold inside,

But fear, and effort I can’t hide.

Their words aren’t knives, but they still cut

A door swings open I can’t shut.

I long to stroll with untroubled ease,

To greet the world without unease.

But I don’t fit the social mold,

And every smile feels bought and sold.

The lights too bright, the sounds too loud,

My senses scream within the crowd.

A thousand rules I never knew

A world that punishes what’s true.

I’m not a puzzle to be solved,

Not “broken,” wrong, or half-evolved.

I feel, I think, I care, I try

I just don’t wear it on the sly.

If only you could see the strain

Behind my silence, not disdain.

If only space was not a threat,

And “just a chat” came with consent.

I don’t want pity, don’t need cure,

Just gentler steps, a world demure.

A world where greetings don’t demand

That I perform on their command.

Let me decide when I can speak,

And when I need my quiet streak.

Not every soul wants open doors

Some find their peace on inner shores.

So if I turn, or fail to smile,

Know I am walking a thousand miles.

Not away from you, but through a storm,

Of masks and scripts I must perform.

Please understand: it’s not a slight

To need more shade than you need light.

I’m not aloof, I’m not unkind

I’m just protecting peace of mind.

So offer grace, and I might stay,

But force me, and I drift away.

And though you may not fully see

I’m here, I’m trying. Let me be.

The Quest for Empathy.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

Not pity sought, nor comfort’s gentle hand,

But clarity, to simply understand.

A silent plea, unspoken, deep and true,

To glimpse the world from my distinct, raw view.

You greet me with a smile, a friendly sound,

And see no tremor on this shifting ground.

The easy flow you navigate with grace,

Becomes a dizzying, frantic, anxious race.

My mind dissects the words, the tone, the space,

Each subtle cue, a puzzle to embrace.

The questions asked, a labyrinth to thread,

While social scripts are written in my head.

I search your eyes for kindness, not to change,

But for a recognition, vast and strange.

That some walk pathways, built with different maps,

And find the simplest bridges full of traps.

To know the unseen work, the constant mental strain,

The quiet, draining effort, again and again.

The energy it takes, beyond what you can see,

Just to perform a self that isn’t truly me.

This isn’t ‘shyness,’ or a choice to flee,

But fundamental truth, of how I come to be.

A different operating system, running deep,

While rules unspoken, others effortlessly keep.

The longing for a breath, a moment, just my own,

Where comfort isn’t forced, nor peace feels overthrown.

To stop the constant loop, the replayed, sharp critique,

And find the words that truly, honestly speak.

When explanations fail, and silence starts to creep,

The well of understanding seems too vast and deep.

To be dismissed, unheard, when feelings run so high,

A lonely, aching question beneath a clouded sky.

For all the hidden battles, waged within the mind,

A simple grace, a patience, is all I hope to find.

No need to mend, to alter, or to “fix” my soul,

Just see the different pieces, and know they make me whole.

To step outside the mold, and simply just exist,

Not ‘fixed,’ but seen, within this heavy mist.

To find a space where difference isn’t flaw,

But part of life’s intricate, universal law.

So lend an ear, a patient, open heart,

And let true empathy begin its vital art.

The Symphony of Too Much.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

The world, a vibrant canvas, bright and bold,

To others, a calm story to unfold.

But to these senses, finely tuned and raw,

It is a torrent, breaking every law.

A grocery store, a simple, daily quest,

Becomes a monster, putting nerves to test.

The fluorescent hum, a relentless, piercing drone,

A thousand tiny needles, sinking to the bone.

Each scanner’s beep, a gunshot in the ear,

Amplified, echoing, fueling sudden fear.

The scent of fruit, of cleaning spray, of bread,

A chemical concoction, warring in my head.

From aisles away, a stranger’s cheap cologne,

Invades my space, on wind currents flown.

A symphony of chaos, loud and unrefined,

A jarring discord, overwhelming to the mind.

The chattering crowd, a cacophony of sound,

Each voice a hammer, on soft pathways bound.

A baby’s cry, a distant, ringing phone,

No filter, no escape, nowhere to be alone.

The scraping carts, a harsh, metallic scream,

Shattering the quiet, disrupting every dream.

My brain, a frantic sieve, attempts to strain,

Each input, sharp and sudden, causing pain.

It cannot filter, cannot tune them out,

But pulls them inward, with a dizzying shout.

A thousand signals, urgent, sharp, and clear,

Demanding notice, whispering of fear.

The light, a glaring knife, too stark, too keen,

Upon this delicate, perceptive scene.

The sudden flash, the flickering of a screen,

Can bring the world to halt, or make it mean

A dizzy spell, a tilt of inner space,

A frantic seeking for a quiet place.

The touch of fabric, rough against the skin,

A tiny torment, where the thoughts begin

To fray and unravel, a tangled, knotted thread,

A subtle agony, from toe to weary head.

This isn’t drama, or a fragile plea,

It is the raw reality inside of me.

A hidden battle, fought with every breath,

A quiet yearning for a gentle death

Of noise and light, of scents that cling and bind,

A silent haven for a troubled mind.

For when the senses push beyond their wall,

My consciousness may falter, and then fall.

A merciful blackness, brief, but truly sought,

When every input leaves the soul distraught.

I yearn for solace, for a moment’s grace,

A quiet corner, or a softer space.

To breathe and gather, to regain my hold,

Before the next loud story is unrolled.

For navigating daily, simple things,

Can feel like warfare, on a thousand wings

Of sound and sight, of touch and scent so strong,

A world not built where I can truly belong.

So understand, this isn’t just a whim,

But living life upon a fragile rim.

The silent struggle, often left unseen,

Within this vibrant, overwhelming scene.

A call for patience, and a gentle hand,

For those who journey through this amplified land.

The Weight of Unseen Effort.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

Each “hello,” a hidden script, rehearsed and played,

A silent burden carried, though no sound is made.

You see the smile, the nod, the steady gaze,

But not the tightrope walked through conversational maze.

A thousand thoughts ignite, a frantic, silent hum,

Before a simple answer dares to softly come.

The calibration fine, of tone, of glance, of pace,

To find the proper footing in this social space.

For every easy word that others freely cast,

A quiet marathon, of energy amassed.

The effort’s worn beneath, a shadow in the light,

To mimic effortless, with all my inner might.

You think it’s just a chat, a moment light and free,

But oh, the cost unseen, unknown, within for me.

The constant push to fit, to blend, to just belong,

A weary, hidden labor, where I must be strong.

The rulebook’s invisible, its chapters never clear,

A constant guessing game, fueled by a subtle fear.

Did I speak too much, too little, or too quick?

Each interaction parsed, a mental, anxious trick.

The polite inquiries, a sudden, pop-up test,

While striving to appear as calm as all the rest.

This deep analysis, a private, draining art,

To bridge the unseen chasm that tears my world apart.

The simple act of being, becomes a complex chore,

A constant performance, wanting something more.

To shed the heavy mask, to breathe and just exist,

Beyond the silent pressure, a soul within a mist.

To stand within a crowd, yet feel profoundly lone,

A hidden conversation, on a separate throne.

The longing for connection, a whisper in the air,

Against the unseen effort, too much to always bear.

And when the day is done, and shadows gently fall,

The silent weight descends, encompassing it all.

Not rude, not shy, but spent, from battles fought inside,

A secret exhaustion, where quiet truths reside.

For understanding craved, beyond the surface show,

The unseen effort’s depth, that few will ever know.

A quiet hope remains, a fragile, earnest plea,

To simply be accepted, for who I truly be.

The Unseen Dance.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

When chaos crowds, and senses start to bleed,

A silent language answers, plants a seed.

A hidden rhythm, deep within the bone,

A path to solace, when I feel alone.

They call it stimming, childish, out of place,

But it’s my anchor, in this turbulent space.

The pacing starts, a measured, gentle sway,

Back and forth, I walk the thoughts away.

A walking meditation, steps that softly fall,

Untangling tangles, answering the call

Of overloaded pathways, frantic and ablaze,

A quiet processing through anxious, winding maze.

Each turn, a pivot, a small, subtle spin,

A moment’s balance, where the peace begins.

The brain, a cluttered room, begins to clear,

With every footfall, shedding doubt and fear.

They ask me, “Sit down, please, you make me tense,”

They cannot know the quiet, vital sense

Of order forming, logic taking hold,

A story whispered, beautifully told,

By simple motion, calming, strong, and true,

A secret rhythm, seen by only few.

And then the spinning, dizzy, light, and free,

A secret solace, just for only me.

A child’s delight, they say, a fleeting game,

But for this adult, it calls me by my name.

The world, a blur, a soft and hazy shield,

Against the sharpness of a battle-field.

A sudden clarity, when thought becomes too loud,

A graceful twirling, escaping from the crowd

Of overthinking, questions without end,

A simple motion, a most loyal friend.

My body wobbles, yet it feels so right,

A sweet disorientation, bathed in light.

A small reboot, a flicker of pure grace,

To find my footing in this spinning place.

It is a lifeline, not a playful whim,

A vital function, brimming to the brim.

When words won’t form, and thoughts are sharp and tight,

This inner dance ignites a guiding light.

The constant hum, the inner, buzzing sound,

Is calmed and quieted, on sacred ground

Of self-made rhythm, solace deeply felt,

A gentle power, where the tensions melt.

But oh, the gaze, the whispered, judging tone,

“He’s 44, shouldn’t he have grown?”

The curious stares, the questions left unsaid,

“Why’s he just pacing?” echoing in my head.

A subtle shame, a need to hide and mask,

This primal instinct, this essential task.

To seem “well-adjusted,” normal, still, and calm,

While inside, stimming offers vital balm.

The urge to fidget, in a cramped, tight space,

A pressure cooker, stifling all my grace.

Until released, the sweet, unburdened sigh,

A freedom found beneath an open sky.

So let me dance, or pace, or softly sway,

To navigate the landscape of my day.

This unseen dance, this silent, deep release,

My path to focus, quiet, and to peace.

It is no childish habit, light and weak,

But strength discovered, for the soul to speak.

A necessary movement, understood by few,

But vital, deeply, for all that I do.

Finding My Own Rhythm.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

I do not need to match your stride,

For I have found my rhythm, deep inside.

A quieter drum, a slower beat,

But every step is still complete.

I’ve walked through noise that made me small,

Where others danced—I dared to crawl.

But crawling, too, is still a way,

To greet the sun, to meet the day.

The world applauds the quick, the loud,

But I find grace outside the crowd.

In silence, in the breath between,

I learn to love what goes unseen.

For in this silence, where my mind prefers to be,

I find the natural rhythm, of me.

The hurried pace, a dizzying array,

Of forced engagements, stealing light from day.

My senses keen, absorb each vibrant sound,

And find solace in less trodden ground.

While some embrace the chatter, bright and bold,

My inner world, a story to unfold,

Requires stillness, quiet, measured thought,

A different kind of battle bravely fought.

The subtle hum of being, soft and low,

A current underneath the constant flow.

I’ve tried to force my feet to run your race,

To wear a smile that felt a grimace on my face.

To speak the words that came with awkward art,

And feel the heavy burden in my heart.

But every strained attempt, a draining cost,

A piece of my true self, momentarily lost.

Until the breaking point, a gentle, whispered call,

To listen to the rhythm, standing strong and tall.

No longer bound by what the world expects,

But guided by the beat my inner self protects.

For in this unique cadence, I am free,

From false facades, and what I’m told to be.

The quiet victories, the moments understood,

Are woven in the fabric of my quietude.

The calm that settles when the day is done,

The solace found beneath the setting sun.

This rhythm is my anchor, constant, strong, and true,

A universe unfolding, just for me and you.

It hums within my veins, a gentle, guiding force,

Charting my own path, along my chosen course.

And though the world may rush, and rarely comprehend,

The peace I find, where inner journeys mend.

I do not seek their loud, their hurried, fleeting cheer,

But cultivate the quiet, holding my rhythm dear.

For in this space, profoundly, deeply known,

My truest self emerges, gracefully full-grown.

Finding Strength in Difference.

A Poem by Eric Pollok.

The world once whispered, “Fit,” “Conform,” “Be like,”

A constant echo, in my mind, to strike.

I stretched and strained, a shape I couldn’t hold,

A story forced, that never quite unfolded.

I watched the effortless, the smooth, the easy way,

And longed for what seemed simple, every day.

The pressure mounted, to dissolve and blend,

To shed the “other,” hoping it would mend.

But in that striving, something deeply broke,

The gentle spirit, stifled by the yoke.

A quiet voice emerged, a tiny, fervent plea,

“This effort drains, this pretense isn’t me.”

And slowly, softly, then with firmer hand,

I ceased to seek the world’s approving stand.

The molds were broken, the illusions torn away,

To face the core of who I am today.

For in the quiet spaces, I began to see,

The subtle power of my unique decree.

The way my mind perceives, my heart attends,

A different lens through which the light extends.

The depth of thought, the intricate design,

A tapestry of self, profoundly, wholly mine.

What once was seen as flaw, a heavy, awkward claim,

Now burns a steady, fascinating flame.

The battles fought within, to simply just exist,

Have forged a wisdom, through the fog and mist.

No longer do I chase the fleeting, hurried praise,

But stand in truth, through unexpected ways.

My rhythm, slow, perhaps, my path, a winding line,

Holds strength unseen, a purpose deeply divine.

For in this difference, bravely brought to light,

I’ve found my truest power, shining ever bright.