Ode to Asperger's (Revision 2)

[just mercedes]

The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain. Feels as though 'old' is there just to achieve meter count
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage, 'bear? as in carry it?
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck. I'm not convinced by 'the itch' - you've called it chaos and old pain


I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells: 'rapid train' doesn't work for me
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil. Good use of sounds and scents

The water spots displayed on side-view glass Not sure what 'side-view glass' is.
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.

My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed. this contradicts the line 'my confidence convinces even me'
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye You lost your iambic pentameter in this line - two too many syllables
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive and this line - stress should be FURtive
to put my back against the wall and spy Not keen on the enjambment here


out my escape. I never can remember things I said: four extra syllables here
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead. and here

A good view of the world experienced by a dysfunctional person. I think you've padded out your poem with excess words just to achieve the required meter though. Thanks for posting this.