When a child is born, they bring a perfect
individual identity
and consider everyone an equal
individual, quite naturally;
they embrace whoever may be different
from themselves, their parents and their kind,
for diversity is stimulating
to the curious and open mind.

But society keeps pushing children
into its collective identities
such as nationality, religion,
culture, race and class, presenting these
as superior to others, teaching
to avoid, belittle or condemn.
While it's fostering a sense of us,
it is fostering a sense of them.

Yet there always will be stubborn children
who resist, to various degrees,
this deindividuation process,
individual personalities
who will not be mainstreamed. Their potential,
mental health and happiness rely
largely on environment and parents
and the parenting approach they try.

Such a child with liberal gentle parents
who, supportive, helpful and aware,
cherish individual expression
will be thriving freely in their care.
Yet the same child with strict conservative parents
trying to mould them for their groups will be
facing constant struggles to hold on to
their detested personality.

In the latter case the children's actions
as a rule will be pathologised,
and attempts are made to break these children
to become compliant and standardised.
They are forced to suppress their own behaviours
and to copy others to obtain
their acceptance, losing their potential
and wellbeing which they won't regain.

Sometimes they're successfully broken, trying
hard to please and grow a thicker skin,
to fulfil society's expectations,
do as others do and to fit in.
Some, though, will defend their way of being,
sometimes viciously like a cornered cat,
others mentally retire from a world
not accepting who they are; that's that.

If your little child is a resister,
celebrate them for the child they are
and don't listen to the voices telling
you to fix them like a damaged car.
We weren't born to shut up, fit in and follow,
rotting on society's grey shelves;
we resist deindividuation
since we much prefer to be ourselves.

This is the poetic version of my Deindividuation Resister Hypothesis.

If you're a nerd and know the fact,
rejoice and hold your head up high,
because the way you think and act
is but your own, and you don't try
to be like others and fit in
where nothing fits you in the least:
you don't compete nor care to win
to see your own prestige increased.
You do not fit on any shelf
as others say you ought
because you're thinking for yourself
and not the way you're taught.

Like no one else you know your stuff,
and nothing leads your mind astray;
sometimes it's tough to be a buff,
but that's a price you gladly pay.
Your train of thought will always run
outside the mainstream rails and take
you out to places others shun
or never dreamed of while awake.
Attempts to put you on their shelf
are vigorously fought
because you're thinking for yourself
and not the way you're taught.

You do not follow, you don't lead,
and you despise it when you're told
what you should do, and you don't heed
attempts to squeeze you in a mould.
While others see you as a creep,
you find their arguments absurd;
others appear to you as sheep,
and you know well you won't be herd.
The likes of you don't need a shelf
to find the place you sought
because you're thinking for yourself
and not the way you're taught.

There are seeds in the winds of the planet
of a plant that could alter its face,
but on reaching their marked destination
very few find a suitable place.

Some are crushed on the spot where they landed
till the life disappears from the germs,
and instead of providing a harvest
they provide a dessert for the worms.

Some are starting to grow in a garden
or a field with the soil that they need,
just to find themselves extirpated
by the ones who consider them weed.

Some are trimmed on a regular basis,
and they're questioned, ‘Why can’t you just grow
like the other sweet flowers around you,
with some beautiful petals to show?’

While they may be abhorred or accepted,
they are never expected to thrive:
they're regarded as plants with no purpose
which rely on largesse to survive.

One or two in a thousand may manage
to grow free into autism trees,
standing tall in the middle of nowhere
as convention's revered escapees.

Each of these bears a fruit that is different
from all fruits that have yet been defined,
and their boughs dangle heavy and laden
as they benefit all of mankind.

A world of clowns is teaching you to mask
to be like them and hide your face behind
layers of paint; they tell you not to ask
the why lest your existence be declined.

For one routine you'll be assigned the role
of follower or leader, and since clowns
can't have egalitarians in control,
you'll be a follower, despite your frowns.

You quickly learn at whom to throw your pies
and whom to take them from, parade your strife
against Earth's gravity and roll your eyes
when reprimanded, bored or tired of life.

You juggle expectations like a pro,
fold your balloons to other people's taste,
lampoon yet reinforce the status quo
and saunter clumsily and without haste.

You realise, as you intently plan
your future and your past without remorse,
that in this zany world of clowns you can
be anything - except yourself, of course.

Unpopular and shunned by many,
he finally took on the task
of hiding his self to please the others
and borrowed an Etruscan mask.

Since then society accepted
him and rewarded his display,
and the Etruscan mask has made him
the person that he is today.

Sometimes when looking in the mirror,
he deeply ruminates on how
the mask has changed his life and wonders
what his own face would look like now.

Karoo sat in the corner
from sunrise until dark,
he banged two stones together
and waited for the spark.

While all the other children
played hide and seek outside,
he didn't feel like seeking
and didn't want to hide.

The adults kept on talking
while sitting in a row
and eating food they'd gathered
from underneath the snow.

His father once went over
and asked the boy, ‘What good
is it to play with flintstones
and branches and dry wood?’

‘I'm trying to light a fire,
like that after the storm
in which we found the burning
tree branch that kept us warm.’

‘What makes you think that banging
two stones will light a fire
like thunderstorms are doing?’
the father did enquire.

‘I saw it at a rockfall
beside the little pit:
one rock dropped on another,
and a small spark was lit.’

‘Good luck,’ his father told him,
returning to his peers
to whom he told the story:
Karoo could see their sneers.

Karoo sat in the corner
from sunrise until dark,
he banged two stones together
and waited for the spark.

One day he saw a little
bright spark that lit the wood,
and soon the pile was burning
away the way it should.

The others gathered round him,
brought kindling and admired
his patience and his talent
and that he never tired.

Karoo was celebrated
and lauded by the lot,
‘Come sit with us, we'll give you
the best of what we've got!’

He said, ‘I'm far too busy,
I won't neglect my chore:
we'll need a fire more often,
I need to practise more.’

Karoo sat in the corner
from sunrise until dark,
he banged two stones together
and waited for the spark.

The curious young man was standing
at Nature's workbench, made of pine,
as she described her many duties
and showed him an assembly line.

‘This is where I, without cessation,
produce the standard human brain
which I deliver with the body
and a short manual to explain.

‘But one in ten must be created
by hand, and that's when I explore
new ways and try out new connections
that I have never tried before.

‘These function on a different level,
the brains with individual sights,
producing scientists and artists
and those who fight for human rights.’

‘Is there a manual for these then?’
the man enquired about her craft.
‘A manual?’ Nature snorted roughly
and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Wedges of wild geese in motion
noisily approach their known
destination near the ocean,
but the heron flies alone.

Wedges of mute swans have clustered,
still but for the monotone
beating of their wings, unflustered,
but the heron flies alone.

Birds and humans of a feather,
as biology has shown
many times, will flock together,
but the heron flies alone.

We all walk tightropes spanned across the Sea
of Social Expectations, and each day
we balance on to find our destiny
by choosing to which side we make our way.

The Isle of Individuality
lies to our left, and here you can aspire
to anything because here you can be
yourself and do whatever you desire.

You'll have the sand beach to yourself and all
the time you need to wander and explore
or to reflect on life or to install
yourself as a creator on the shore.

The Isle of Group Identities, its twin,
lies to our right, and here you are embraced
for doing as you're told and fitting in
(that's if you do) wherever you are placed.

Here you'll enjoy the group activities,
share your emotions eagerly, delight
in merriments and, in the gentle breeze,
attend beach parties every single night.

People of a social nature
show their feelings, pain and grief
to alert their friends and loved ones
whose compassion brings relief.

Sharing, as they say, is caring,
but not all who care will share;
those with individual natures
won’t display the woes they bear.

They don’t want to bother others,
and the agony they feel
is a deeply private matter
with which, privately, they’ll deal.

Their compassion and their sorrow
are as real as some outcurved
demonstration of one’s suff’ring;
they’re not heartless but reserved.

Therefore do not judge these people
for their failure to display
what they feel; we all are dealing
with emotions our own way.

'A man can be himself only so long as he is alone.' - ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

The random boxes into which we're thrown
at birth decide who we become, worldwide.
The man who is himself must stand alone.

For some have always scorned the overblown
group egos and successfully defied
the random boxes into which we're thrown.

And we have come to argue as we've grown
that our identities shan't be denied:
the man who is himself must stand alone.

Most humans only care about their own,
people like them, and they defend with pride
the random boxes into which we're thrown.

Yet progress, as world history has shown,
means looking past the box in which we hide:
the man who is himself must stand alone.

This is one fact that should be widely known:
to care or think we have to step outside
the random boxes into which we're thrown.
The man who is himself must stand alone.

(based on my Deindividuation Resister Hypothesis)

The playful gods afflicted me
with many a waggish curse for fun
but spared me from the worst of all
they call the evanescing one.

There is a curse that makes you weird,
and one that never lets you win
at life, but there's a curse that's worse,
and that's the curse of fitting in.

All the accursed ones have become
invisible, removed from view,
for none of them will change the world,
and none will fashion something new.

Thus for the life of me I can't,
despite the trials through which I've been,
imagine anything that's worse
than this: the curse of fitting in.

Born with their perfect self, each child develops
their own identity and their own ways;
most parents disapprove and therefore pressure
them to become the child they want to raise.

Some parents find their child is more defensive
regarding their identity, that's why
it can be difficult to break their spirit
and force them to conform and to comply.

They feel the need to trim the perfect flower
to demonstrate it isn't growing wild:
children do not rebel against their parents,
but parents will rebel against their child.

The River of Humanity is running
around the Isle of Progress, moving fast
towards its extensive mouth where it's absorbed by
the Ocean of Oblivion at last.

But while the raging mainstream flows downriver
with all who crave the sameness of before,
the countercurrent brings the ones who chose it
onto the fruitful island's golden shore.

People want to be accepted
by their peers and brood about
how the others may perceive them;
fitting in, they can’t stand out.

No one ever makes a difference
who has no original thought;
progress isn’t brought by people
who are thinking as they’re taught.

No one ever makes a difference
who adopts the social norm;
progress isn’t brought by people
who uncritically conform.

No one ever makes a difference
who obeys on bended knee;
progress isn’t brought by people
who revere authority.

No one ever makes a difference
who is going with the flow;
progress isn’t brought by people
who uphold the status quo.

As one of billions Pips concluded
he was dispensable and found
all those around him were deluded
into believing that they count.

‘Our lives,’ he told the rest, ‘are fleeting;
there should be more, and I’ll know soon,
than swaying, eating and excreting
and reproducing at full moon.

‘I shall detach myself this minute
to venture into the great unknown
and find the world with what is in it
where I shall make it on my own.’ -

‘Don’t leave! The world is full of strangers,’
his neighbour urged him. ‘Hear our plea!
The ocean’s rife with threats and dangers:
you’re safe within the family.’ -

‘You spoil the waters we abound in;
you’re part of the Great Barrier Reef,
the largest living structure found in
the solar system, I believe.

‘You should be proud to be a member
of this community, and when
we spawn once more in mid-December
you’ll love to do your part again.’ -

‘Don’t see our vastness as a cumber -
here in the colony is your place.
What makes us great is our sheer number;
we even can be seen from space!’ -

‘I’ve been, as long as I’ve existed,
proudly myself, and pride compels:
I’m Pips the Polyp,’ he insisted,
‘and not a part of something else.

‘Holding me back would be immoral;
there must be more for me to be
than some component of a coral
construct I cannot even see.

‘I shall be off! Here I don’t matter,
and so I’ll leave the reef anon
which won’t be faring worse or better;
it won’t be different once I’m gone.’ -

‘And what would happen,’ one was asking,
‘if all of us, right now, broke free?’ -
‘Billions of polyps would be basking
in sunlight and in liberty!’

Then he let go. Some contemplated
recapture but would have had to stray
themselves to catch him, and with bated
breath they observed his getaway.

So Pips embarked upon his journey
to make it on his own, unswerved;
let’s wish him luck upon his journey,
which certainly he has deserved.

The sun shone down on Madagascar
when underneath the ground a batch
of five chameleons decided
that it was time for them to hatch.

Their lime-green skin lit up the jungle
around as they emerged, but four
of them, within a few short moments,
turned brown to match the forest floor.

Seeing that she stayed green, her siblings
advised their sister, 'Changing hue
is easy: space your nanocrystals
and you'll fit in, just like we do.'

'No thanks,' she said. 'It's my opinion
that shifting colours is a sham
to hide identities; I rather
want to be seen for who I am.'

At first my parents didn't have the slightest
experience with parenting, and I,
alas, had no experience with childing,
the awkwardness of which one can't deny.

To change my individual behaviours
and make me act the way society
demanded, working with rewards was tested
which had the opposite effect on me.

I deemed the promise of rewards a blatant
attempt to bribe me, and it only served
to strengthen my resolve and, labelled stubborn,
my mind remained determined and unswerved.

My common sense has always been a stronger
guide than a lush reward could ever be,
preventing me from, without thought or question,
doing what those in charge expect of me.

You do not learn by asking questions,
experimenting or by thought
but by repeating what we teach you,
for that's how we ourselves were taught.
Once you have mastered repetition,
you may, by accolades beguiled,
exchange a value for a token
for being a compliant child.

Behave and act as we instruct you,
though this may come at the expense
of your convictions, feelings, comfort,
your needs or even common sense.
Once you've adapted your behaviour,
you may, by accolades beguiled,
exchange a value for a token
for being a compliant child.

Accept the world as we describe it,
regardless of the world you see:
replace your individual judgment
with the urge to please authority.
Once you've internalised our worldview,
you may, by accolades beguiled,
exchange a value for a token
for being a compliant child.

Fly a mile on my wings and enjoy the perspective
that lets you observe, as your vision matures,
more than walking below, and from this higher angle
you will see there are other worlds beside yours.

Fly a mile on my wings, and you'll suddenly notice
the context of things that appeared to be
unrelated, you'll glance at the mountains' deep secrets
and admire the scenery others can't see.

Fly a mile on my wings and watch the people,
and while looking down you will realise
each crowd is made up of discrete human beings
with their separate stories, opinions and ties.

Fly a mile on my wings and revise your old worldview,
see the world as it is and overtly defy
the mob that has gathered beneath you, shoots arrows,
and angrily shouts at you, 'Humans don’t fly!'

The lures are on their way along the tracks,
the starting box has opened, and the race
begins while many an excited face
lights up and soon is stuffed with drinks and snacks.

The first cat sticks its head out, carefully
examining if there could be a catch
to its new freedom, has a little stretch
and leaves the race course looking for a tree.

Another one observes the lure pass by
indifferently and slowly steps outside
to find out where the mice and squirrels hide
and then decides to chase a butterfly.

Two others instigate a playful fight
while some explore the race course’ neighbourhood,
stroll off into the meadows or the wood,
and soon all of the cats are out of sight.

Meanwhile their trainers, trying to outshine
each other, wait with drinks and bated breath,
as if it were a matter of life and death,
for the first cat to cross the finish line.

‘Do as the leaders tell you,’
the wolf said to his son,
‘or else they might expel you,
for that's how things are done.

‘Make sure you never trigger
their anger and stay back,
and you, as you grow bigger,
may head your own small pack.’ -

‘I'll go my own direction,
a brave lone wolf,’ he growled.
‘Without the pack's protection?’
his fearful mother howled.

‘It may be hard to swallow,
but this is what I need:
I wasn't born to follow
and have no urge to lead.’

As they were running from the raging
bushfire to reach a safer spot,
a lone wolf and a feral donkey
commenced to talk about their lot.

‘I used to live and hunt with others,’
the wolf remembered with a groan;
‘their herd mentality annoyed me,
and I fare better on my own.’

‘I used to be a beast of burden,’
the donkey brayed, ‘but by and by
I figured out it's not my purpose
to carry others' loads and die.’

‘Though we've been burnt,’ the wolf concluded,
'our independence stayed intact;
it's clear we were not meant to live as
pack animals, and that's a fact.’

We try to find our way beneath dim skies
in the dark Forest of Anxiety
and struggle forth, though we can barely see
as much as our own hands before our eyes.

Behind each trunk a terrible surprise
may lurk from which we cannot hide or flee;
is this a path or just a gap where we
may be caught up in something we despise?

Yet we whose minds have never been at ease,
because we feel we're being followed, fear
we've a split second to decide our way.

And even though, as hopelessness draws near,
we cannot see the forest for the trees,
we hope that we'll get out of it one day.

A lot of people suffer nightmares,
born of uncertainty or fear
or past experiences, haunting
their sleep with terrors most severe.

But there are some who suffer nightoafs
which, too, attack us where it hurts:
the ghosts that haunt us pull our pants down
or pour their milkshakes on our shirts.

They empty dustbins in our schoolbags,
gleefully trip us as we pass
or ridicule our sound opinions
in front of the entire class.

Our memories of childhood bullies
catch up, and the malicious ghost
of sheer embarrassment is always
the phantom that we fear the most.

Sometimes we wake at night, reliving
the trauma of our youth or find
new variations as we yearn for
the horrors of the nightmare kind.

His mother found him, dragging him away
from his belovèd swan friends even though
he struggled, and she took him - so he’d grow
up duckish - to the doctor in the bay.

‘There’s a solution, I am thrilled to say,
an evidence-based therapy, you know,
to which your nonconformist son should go,
for which most health insurers gladly pay.

‘He’ll learn to paint his body brown each day,
apply green make-up like a proper beau,
to fold his neck and keep his head down low
and how to play the way the others play.

‘Your duckling will, in just a few short years,
be indistinguishable from his peers.’

Twilight fell before the longest
night of winter, and the weather
weakened all except the strongest
of the pack as down below
the hill grey wolves all huddled close together
and warmed each other in the knee-deep snow.

Here, to pass the time, some mothers
told their cubs about the hated
fierce red wolves (who, as some others
claimed, were not real wolves at all)
and warned against the weird emancipated
lone wolf who'd left to follow his own call.

In the meantime at a clearing
said lone wolf, behind a cedar,
saw a group of bears appearing
who held council on that day.
'We have to kill the loathsome wolves,' their leader
declared, 'because they rob us of our prey.

'They could easily defeat us
as one group, but since they madly
hate each other, they will meet us
separately, and we should
attack and kill the greys at dawn and gladly
finish the reds thereafter and for good.'

Carefully the wolf retreated
and removed his pawprints, using
his thick tail, as he repeated
what he'd heard, trying to get
his head around it, quite intent on losing
no time and warning all about the threat.

He approached the greys who loudly
growled at him; the alpha, branding
him a traitor, warned, 'You proudly
walked away from us to live
by your design and not by our longstanding
traditions which the pack does not forgive!'

'I have come to save you, brothers,'
he replied and told the story.
'To survive, we'll need the others;
we must struggle paw in paw
with all red wolves to foil the vile and gory
scheme of the bears and see them flee in awe.'

So the pack, despite the dangers,
sought the fierce red wolves' location
who were snarling at the strangers.
'Hold your fangs!' the unafraid
lone wolf exclaimed, explained the situation,
and they all went to where the big bears stayed.

As the bears woke in the glaring
moonlight midst the snow and berries,
they were faced with one most daring
army of wolves, intent and stern,
howling and growling at their adversaries
who fled the forest, never to return.

Grey and red wolves stayed together,
and they quickly, on reflection,
found that in the freezing weather
larger groups rather than small
packs generate more warmth and more connection
and that they weren't so different after all.

'You have saved the pack,' the grateful
alpha said. 'Thanks to your warning
we expelled the vile and hateful
bears and foiled their grisly plan,
so I invite you on this happy morning
to take your place within the pack again.'

'No, I've stranger roads to travel
than the likes of you will ever
see and secrets to unravel,
so don't put me on the spot.
Besides all this, as pack wolf I would never
have been discovering this evil plot.

'My distinctiveness has freed me
and my sense of self keeps growing,
but I'll be there when you need me.'
With a friendly nod the stray
lone wolf turned back, his playful pupils glowing,
and confidently went upon his way.

It's only natural that we zoom
in on what holds our minds in thrall:
while others try to read the room,
we read the writing on the wall.

Voices, noises all around me
put my mind in such a spin
that it feels like they have drowned me
in a pool of sticks and tin.

Humming tremors from the fridges,
drumming fingers' frequency
and the ringing tills' strange pitches
make one loud cacophony.

People talking to each other,
people talking on the phone
and the background music smother
all my thoughts and things I've known.

Different smells of different persons
and of different brands incite
all my senses, and it worsens
with the fluorescent light.

While these stimuli affect me,
you complain I don't obey;
how the hell do you expect me
to discern a word you say?

‘Too-wit,’ the owl repeated to her child;
she only watched her beak but showed no sign
of copying her mum who, with a mild
display of resignation, uttered, ‘Fine.’

Her father almost went into a rage
and claimed, ‘I’m sure she does it out of spite,
or she is dumb; owls hoot when they’re her age,
though it takes time for them to get it right.’

The little owl remembered how, about
a week before, she once had tried to hoot,
but when instead a faint ‘doo-wat’ came out
they’d laughed at her attempt and called it cute.

Later that evening, for a longer span,
her parents went a-hunting; on her own,
as every day, the little owl began
to practise hooting once she was alone.

‘Doo-weed,’ she said. She cursed herself for not
doing a better job and felt quite low.
‘Doo-it;’ the owlet felt she slowly got
closer and chose to have another go.

‘Too-wit!’ - She finally had got it right;
excitedly she widened both her eyes.
‘Too-wit!’ - Once more she hooted with delight:
her parents would be in for a surprise.

Please mummy, daddy, do not trespass
on my identity
because I am the only person
that I desire to be.

Just keep in mind that I am human,
a child and not a lamb,
so do not tell me who I should be,
love me for who I am.

I have a brain and I can use it;
don’t take that skill away,
don’t tell me what I should believe in
and what to think or say.

Don’t force me into obeying every
grown-up without ado
or doing things the way you do them
if mine is working, too.

Don’t tell me to ignore my feelings
or mock them; they are real,
and though you mightn’t understand them,
they are the way I feel.

Please mummy, daddy, do not trespass
on my identity,
just love, encourage and respect me
and let myself be me.

Let the other children play
in the yard, I’m off the boat;
since this world is not for me,
I’m content to stay remote.
I’ll be sitting on the roof
after supper in the gloam,
waiting for the UFO
that will come and take me home.

Do not pressure me to join
in their sports and learn their names,
for their sphere is not my sphere,
and their games are not my games.
I’ll be sitting on the roof
after supper in the gloam,
waiting for the UFO
that will come and take me home.

I forgot what life is like
where I came from and my past,
but my mem'ry shall be jogged
by returning there at last.
I’ll be sitting on the roof
after supper in the gloam,
waiting for the UFO
that will come and take me home.

(Inspired by a childhood memory of Tiffany Varro)

Professor Meantwell found a cure
for autism that could
eradicate the feared condition
from humankind for good.

He also had a time machine
which he had learned to fly;
he took the potion and some nuts
and baked them in a pie.

He travelled back through space and time
and finally beheld
the cavern where the primal group
of modern humans dwelled.

A bunch of hairy cavefolk stared
at him, and when they saw
the flashlight he took out, they shrieked
and dropped their jaws in awe.

He gave them each a slice of pie
which (without fork, I guess)
was eagerly devoured; he deemed
his mission a success.

But when he flew his time machine
through dark foreboding skies
back to the present, he was in
for quite a big surprise:

A bunch of hairy cavefolk stared
at him, and when they saw
the flashlight he took out, they shrieked
and dropped their jaws in awe.

When Alfred Russel Wallace wrote
to his friend Charles, suggesting
how species may emerge and showed
it could be proved by testing,

His evolutionary idea
by Darwin wasn't doubted;
he had, now for the twentieth year,
worked on a book about it.

A presentation was prepared
by scientists of a feather,
and Wallace and Charles Darwin shared
its authorship together.

The moral of the story (you
may find it chauvinistic):
great minds do think alike, it's true,
because they are autistic.

I'm black - so what? Diversity is nothing
to be ashamed of. I shan't let you keep
your uninformed opinions; do you really
think that my colour makes me less of a sheep?

You say you sympathise and look for treatments;
I need appreciation and not cures.
I'm happy; when our fields get cold in winter,
my fleece absorbs more of the sun than yours.

And when, while you are getting sheared in springtime,
due to my colour I am left in peace,
do I not feel your anguish and allow you
to warm your trembling bodies at my fleece?

Still you insist that I become like others
and don't stand out in your community.
An all-white flock is colourless and boring,
and I see nothing wrong with being me.

Bleat all you want, I shall not bleach my woolfell
to fit your standards, and I feel no shame:
you laugh at me because I am so different;
I laugh at you because you're all the same.

(Inspired by the Jonathan Davis quote)

Columbus left for Asia and was given
a letter to the ruling khan which had
been written by the ruling Spanish monarchs
but sailed to the Americas instead;
the king and queen impatiently awaited
the khan's response and thought they'd been denied:
you see, the khan had not received their message,
or else he'd have replied.

The angry boss looks at my desk and shudders
and shouts at me, ‘Just look at this big mess,’
and so I look at it and then continue
my work. As he returns (enraged, I guess)
he screams, ‘How come that still you haven't tidied
your desk as you were told? I'll have your hide!’
You see, I may not have received his message,
or else I'd have replied.

With an affectionate smile you sit beside me,
ask my opinion of this little joint,
you ask about my interests and my background:
I answer truthfully and to the point
like in an interview. You give up, thinking
I brush your subtle overtures aside:
you see, I may not have received your message,
or else I'd have replied.

When my granny died I suffered,
having lost my only friend,
and I went upon a journey
- one that met a sudden end -
to my deepest inner feelings.
Something said, ‘You’ll carry through;
she is dead and gone forever,
there is nothing you can do.
Leave it be, or you will suffer
even more.’ – I saw a tall
wall that barred my way and calmly
read the writing on the wall,
‘For your sanity and reason,
stay away! You must avoid
thoughts that'd tear your heart asunder:
Turn or be destroyed!’

Once I met an older lady
with a spirit far from damp
who recounted all the horrors
of the concentration camp
where her children had been tortured,
starved and murdered in her sight
while she slaved for IG Farben
and got raped most every night.
As I listened to her story
I was shaken to the core;
soon my world went into turmoil,
and I faced the wall once more,
‘For your sanity and reason,
stay away! You must avoid
thoughts that'd tear your heart asunder:
Turn or be destroyed!’

I have also seen the children
in the city of Bombay:
mutilated for the purpose
of arousing pity, they
roam the streets and beg for money
which their owners will collect
while a lot of these young children
die from hunger and neglect.
As my stomach kept on turning,
I felt guilty being free;
close to tears, I felt like crying,
but the wall reminded me,
‘For your sanity and reason,
stay away! You must avoid
thoughts that'd tear your heart asunder:
Turn or be destroyed!’

Oft I think about the victims
of our wars and hold my breath,
starving and dismembered children,
men and women stoned to death,
people killed for their convictions,
the convictions of their kin,
for their lifestyle or their gender,
for the colour of their skin,
humans sacrificed to profit,
slaves who'll never break their chain,
and I find myself, as always,
standing at the wall again,
‘For your sanity and reason,
stay away! You must avoid
thoughts that'd tear your heart asunder:
Turn or be destroyed!’

There is a box for politicians
(which prolly should be dumped or burnt),
there is a box for the accountants
with inventory, or so I learned.

There is a sable box for clergy
as well which slowly gathers dust,
there is a box for secretaries
where current fashions are discussed.

There is a box for lots of different
inhabitants. Without a doubt
this is the box for wayward autists:
here we fit in by standing out!

I build a prison in my head
where I, exerting self-defence,
incarcerate the thoughts that bred
the doubts about my competence.

Here I detain ideas I deem
counterproductive to my growth,
who sabotaged my self-esteem
and chanted jibes I dread and loathe.

Here stay the notions that forbade
my ego to believe in me,
and once the last arrest is made,
I'll lock the gate and burn the key.

(Tune: Let it Snow)

Oh, the noises around are taxing,
but my flapping is so relaxing,
my senses are filled to the brim;
let me stim, let me stim, let me stim!

Now you tell me we’ll be stopping
all our games to do some shopping;
when you change our plans on a whim,
let me stim, let me stim, let me stim!

When we finally kiss goodnight,
how I'll hate looking at the bare wall
until dreams are at last in sight,
calming my mind from it all.

With the thoughts that will be creeping
through my head until I’m sleeping;
when my night light is going dim,
let me stim, let me stim, let me stim!

Although the days are gone when I'd stand frozen
before the audience and clench my sheet,
afraid my hands and voice might start to tremble,
performing still remains a taxing feat.

First I remind myself to take it easy,
because the listeners appreciate
a poem that's not rushed while I am tempted
to get it over with at any rate.

So I start reading from my compositions,
afraid I'll get my tongue in quite a twist,
which I will anyway. And when that happens,
I read the line more clearly and persist.

A truck drives past; due to its booming engine
I cannot hear myself and speculate
whether the others do. ‘Would it be better
to read the verse again?’ I self-debate.

I pause and think, ‘Should this not be a plural?’
My eyes scan back to see if it was wrong
to use the singular and find it wasn't;
relief! - I hope I didn't pause too long.

Somebody whispers. Would it be related
to my performance? Did he take offence
at something, did I mispronounce a certain
word, or did what I've read fail to make sense?

Again I hesitate, this time reflecting
on whether I have missed a beat when I
composed the poem, so I count the stresses
and see I got them right; this cup passed by.

‘He built a little hut where he was hiding;’
have I explained the reason why he hid?
I check the poem's first and second stanzas,
and soon I'm satisfied to find I did.

The air conditioning comes on. Its buzzing
makes it a challenge not to lose the plot;
not knowing how the others feel, I wonder
whether to subtly raise my voice or not.

‘The heir was shot point-blank;’ I read and ponder
what ‘point-blank’ means, for clearly the tycoon
had not been shot with blanks, so I decide to
look up the source of this expression soon.

After my turn I do my best to listen
to those performing after me that night,
but think, ‘Have I made one complete and utter
fool of myself or did it go all right?’

Since I was small I’ve been befuddled
by people’s gullibility;
their lack of individual insight
seems quite irrational to me.

How could a simple ad or poster
cause them to buy what they don’t need
or vote for candidates and parties
based on a slogan that they read?

What reason could there be for doing
what others do or wanting things
that others have, just like a puppet
moved by society’s apron strings?

Who with an ounce of education
would automatically condemn
all that is different and routinely
distinguish between us and them?

Why would one do what those in power
suggest without a single thought
of ethics and of consequences,
their basic morals set to nought?

But now I know why all around us
most people, as their deeds imply,
are easily manipulated:
they’re not autistic, that is why.

To be Frank, I am unable
to comply with any norm
since my independent nature
wasn't programmed to conform.

To be Frank, my views are steadfast
if not challenged logicwise
since my strong determined spirit
wasn't made to compromise.

To be Frank, some things I utter
meet reactions unforeseen
since my unperceptive frontal
lobe expresses what I mean.

As Carl sat reading on the park bench,
which in a while he hadn’t done,
a mother and her little toddler
sat down beside him in the sun.

‘I want my drink,’ the child was reaching
into the bag with his small fist.
‘Not with that hand,’ she reprimanded
the boy and slapped his little wrist.

Carl watched and flinched as if he’d witnessed
a brutal unprovoked attack.
‘He has left-handedness, poor cratur,’
she tried to justify the smack.

‘So what?’ he said. ‘I am left-handed
myself, and there is nothing wrong
with it. There sometimes are small problems,
but usually I get along.’

‘Don’t let your handicap define you,’
she now corrected him to stress:
‘You’re not left-handed, you are merely
a person with left-handedness.

‘Left-handedness is caused by casein
in formula. I was bereft
of my small boy; once he was on it,
he started grasping with the left.’

‘That’s nonsense. New-born babies have no
firm grasp on things until they are
a few months old which coincides with
the age they’re put on formula.’

‘This sinistrality epidemic
is the world’s greatest threat, you know;
left-handedness was nonexistent
one or two centuries ago.’

‘We were around but burnt as witches,
and later forced to use our right,
and if we didn’t, we were hidden
away to keep us out of sight.’

‘It’s called the right hand for a reason,’
she lectured him. ‘It’s hard to cope;
there’ll be a cure for those who suffer
from sinistrality soon, I hope.’

‘I can assure you we don’t suffer
from sinistrality; we do
suffer from attitudes and notions
of uninformed buffoons like you.’

The woman claimed, ‘But you’re disabled!’ -
‘I guess we are, but not, you see,
disabled by being left-handed
but disabled by society.

‘The world was made for people using
their right hand, as you may recall,
and that is why we’re disadvantaged
but not defective; not at all!

‘Take all the artists like da Vinci
who used their left and understand:
they would have left no masterpieces
if forced to use their weaker hand.’

‘They were high-functioning,’ she answered,
‘just like yourself; don’t lecture me!
You’ll never ever even vaguely
understand sinistrality.

‘A left-handedness mom, I’m facing
struggles at which you only smirk
with a small boy who is severely
left-handed and will never work.

‘Low-functioning left-handedness is
causing despair and untold woe
to an extent that you conceited
high-functioning ones will never know.’

‘I am high-functioning,’ Carl answered,
‘because there’s no one to prevent
me using my left hand, and therefore
I use it to my heart’s content.’

The woman packed her things and offspring
with a resentful parting shot,
‘You think this illness is a picnic,
but for some mothers it is not!’

Father Christmas is a man who dresses
in a bright red suit once every year,
wears a snow-white beard and is rewarding
children he deems good, and if you steer
well away from discord, heed your elders
and accept what you are taught as fact,
don't ask questions, do what is expected
and as you are told and never act
in a way considered disrespectful,
he will give you hugs and words of praise,
many toys that you will soon grow out of
and sweet treats that last for many days.

Cousin Beltane is the spirit living
in your mind who is suggesting you
stand up for yourself and others, question
what is falsely stated to be true,
ask the why in everything, consider
everyone your equal with a strong
sense of fairness, think for yourself, envision
progress and refuse to do what's wrong.
If you're listening to Cousin Beltane,
you'll remain yourself, and you'll possess
what no Father Christmas ever gives you:
courage, confidence and happiness.

Welcome to our Antisocial Skills
Training. In this module you will learn
to be more efficient through no-frills
conversations, never to concern
your officious self with others' stuff,
not to be afraid to disagree
with the herd (although it may be tough)
or a person in authority,
to resist the pressure from your peers,
groupthink, group dynamics and the urge
to conform despite the ugly sneers
from the masses and instead diverge
from the norm, to look at facts and not
blindly trust what others claim, to speak
truth when inconvenient, to spot
everything uncommon and unique,
to remain objective and to think
for yourself, to rise and boldly go
where nobody ventured, not to shrink
and to controvert the status quo.

'If you want to join our team, you better
know that we care less about your verve,
your past work experience, your letter
of recommendation, learning curve,
competence and job qualifications:
someone's inclination to fulfil
mainstream people's social expectations
is more critical than any skill.'

The recipe straight from our manifesto:
you take some gold, titanium and just
a smidgen of samarium - hey presto,
here is an individual to trust!

Pointing out our views are strong
does not prove our views are wrong.

When you attempt to make us learn our place
by surrendering to what you deem the norm,
you keep insisting with a solemn face,
'We all have to comply and to conform.'
But do we? Do we really? We all live
in a society that is beyond
divided and divisive, and you give
advice that everybody should despond.

People are judged according to their group
identities, and strongly you condemn
those different from your own and try to dupe
us to employ the concepts us and them.
You ridicule or downplay our mistrust
of your society's restrictive mould
and keep insisting everybody must
go with the flow and do as they are told.

But looking at the world, you must agree
we need more individuals who dare
to call out bullshit and hypocrisy
and to oppose, while others do not care,
injustice, inequality and acts
of violence that often are rerun,
think for themselves and base their thought on facts:
join us and let us show you how it's done.

Thom Hartmann recently dug up the 1907 poem The Men that Don't Fit In by Robert Service and suggested that it describes ADHD. I agree, but I think that it also applies to related neurological orientations such as autism.
The poem perfectly echoes the condescending and disparaging attitude mainstream people show towards individual expression, due to their dark obsession with conformity and compliance.
As I argue in the Deindividuation Resister Hypothesis, human progress is driven by people who retain the individual identity every child is born with and are therefore ostracised and pathologised by the conditioned masses.
I have used the regular font for the original poem and italics for my reply.

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
We won't accept the place you chose
for us but try to find
our way ourselves; the status quo's
curse must be undermined.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain’s crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don’t know how to rest.
To leave your world the way it is
means progress must concede;
although you're not aware of this,
we are the change you need.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they’re always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
Our differences are our strengths,
and things that are are flawed;
therefore we go to many lengths
to change what you applaud.
They say: “Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!”
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.
We're pioneers removing rocks;
we are the first and last
to walk our paths despite the blocks
before us you have cast.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It’s the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
We didn't realise there was
a race, and we care not;
we are discoverers of shores
that soon may feed a lot.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that’s dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
We who are strangely unafraid
of the masses and who flout
its rules by now have gladly paid
the price for standing out.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life’s been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
And comes the time, we will reflect
on life and, with some pride,
assess our own achievements which
the others may deride.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He’s a rolling stone, and it’s bred in the bone;
He’s a man who won’t fit in.
We triumph over tyrannical
conformity's strangling hand
and celebrate our sense of self
fit-ins can't understand.

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