Hi, this is just a poem I wrote a while back about how much the number 22 makes me ick. Because, you know, relatable problems. Comment if you have any numbers/letters/words/objects where synaesthesia makes them a pain! Think in rainbows!
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The numbers and letters
slant on the page
in my inky splodges
the black smearing across
my thick fingers
the 'e' and 'i' indistinguishable now. "That's a pretty date,"
I say
mindful of how you look at me
weirdly
tilt your head that way you do when you're concerned
for my mental state. I haven't said it much
this year
I don't like how the numbers sit on the page
crouch in the corner, scored under
fiercely protesting that they're here
I don't like the squat double 2
the way it hangs
heavy
a dirty orange
not burnt orange
but rather just like the splat of paint
on the uncleaned pallet. I don't like that colour
with anything
it ruins all my light shades
the numbers in my head
turning sour. I don't see kindness
in its hunched over form
it shadows the tiny 0 and presses it
down
it won't let dreams float. It's not
logical or sensible but it hurts
the broken pathways of my neurones
that say seeing should be done
in full colour. Blue ink isn't
blue
to my eyes
I see a jumble of shades
the chaos of an invisible kaleidoscope
the pain in my head
when people say they can't see it
it isn't true.
The date is placed
at the top of the page
underlined
one line
then the title
two lines
then the work. The part you see
neatly organised
what they see when they look
at my straight collar
and ruler and pencil
in parallel lines. My head doesn't see
a neat set-out
it sees a mash of colour and
a mess of numbers all clamouring
for attention
shouting "Me! Me! Me!"
YOU ARE READING
Synaesthesia Stuff
RandomThis is just a random collection of thoughts/poems about synaesthesia, a neurodiversity I can never find enough information on. (It is one of my special interests, you have been warned.) Feel free to ask me anything/ask for anything. I would love to...
