I'm small, i'm timid, a scared little mouse;
I'm even too frightened to leave the house.
What rights do i have? And where can i go?
The world is so large. I'm sure i don't know.
What wrongs do i have? Am i really free
to do as i like, to live and be me?
But I don't know who i am anymore;
I don't have a plan, i don't know the score
and everything round me's moving so fast
and try as i might, i always come last.
It's silly i know, but no matter how,
the harder i try, the more i avow
the less i achieve, the more i feel lost.
Time is a maelstrom upon which, i'm tossed
from pillar to post, and never feel sure
of anything but a worry so pure
that all i'll achieve is living my life
unbalanced upon the edge of a knife,
a marionette who strings have been frayed.
And i'm all alone, and i'm so afraid
and all i can do is write down these lines,
describing the way uncertainty mines
the path i must walk without any way
of knowing with confidence how, each day
I can be me without detonating
those booby-traps there, forever waiting
to scupper my plans. Such is my prison,
not knowing whether i have autism.

MP 8624