6 Letters - Charles Saroff, 10
Shortly before I turned 5 years of age,
I took a test in a small office.
The school year hadn't started just yet,
And being the naive child which I was,
I assumed the test to be an entrance exam,
Because I didn't know how
Most kindergartens don't have those.
I remember being asked a bunch of questions;
I remember being told to draw a square;
I remember being frustrated
Because drawing a perfect square
Proved to be rather difficult.
Some time after this, my mother
Drove my sister and me to an office building.
She told us to play in the waiting room,
And like we always did, I played alone
While my sister tried futilely
To get my attention.
I didn't know how this
Was not how most children played;
I didn't know how there was a doctor
Watching me and taking down notes.
We returned to the building at some point.
I had turned 5;
I had started kindergarten.
I was sent into a back room
Where a woman gave me another test.
I was shown pictures of people;
I was told word salad;
I was asked to figure out
What these people were saying;
I was sympathizing more with
These abstractions than with my classmates;
I was identifying the emotions of photographs;
I was filling in blanks on papers.
Pervasive Development Disorder
Not Otherwise Specified.
I didn't know what it meant,
But looking back now,
I wonder why it didn't specify, even though
It's the whole point of a diagnosis.
It's strange how something show vague
Was enough to explain my introversion;
Was enough to describe why my hands
Often fluttered in front of me
Was enough to justify my refusal
To ever look someone in the eye.
Was enough to reveal why I cringed
At loud noises and crowds
And hid under tables
I hope I'm normal enough.
Even now, I stare at faces
Rather than make eye contact;
Even now, I carry my books in my arms
At school, because I'm worried
Of my hands drifting;
Even now, I talk with the people around me
And I worry about what cues I'm missing.
I think about my five year old self,
And now I appear as a long shadow
Of the kindergartener which I used to be.
I am a thin and dim apparition
Trying to break free of not knowing
How my life fits into those around me.
Coming of Age - Faith Christoper, 11
The throne of the present
Is linked to the past
Not in ways I intention
From a psychological path
Of sorrows and traumas
Scarred on the brain
Healed in the heart
Leading to our thought game
Indenial and oblivious
Oh a teenage novice
Behavior will believe equality
But reality states the obvious
Nostalgia be the carrier
Depression was the start
When the cue ball striked the 8 ball
With the point of the nose arched
How Lovely
How lovely does one’s eyes, sparkle in light.
How one’s touch, gentle, no silk could compare.
How one’s love, everlasting, full life.
How one’s beauty, allusive, if be fair.
My soul, empty, ever so I want her.
My mind, abridge, disquiet, I need peace.
My lips, speechless, words cannot register.
My body, still, love is just a belief.
She, a blossom, so divine but graceful.
She, like water, calming, always oneself.
She, not knowing, how her beauty travels.
She, so loving, never scared to show herself.
She, a mystery, invisible and free.
Who is she, I know not, the one to be?
By Dana Thomas
Shortly before I turned 5 years of age,
I took a test in a small office.
The school year hadn't started just yet,
And being the naive child which I was,
I assumed the test to be an entrance exam,
Because I didn't know how
Most kindergartens don't have those.
I remember being asked a bunch of questions;
I remember being told to draw a square;
I remember being frustrated
Because drawing a perfect square
Proved to be rather difficult.
Some time after this, my mother
Drove my sister and me to an office building.
She told us to play in the waiting room,
And like we always did, I played alone
While my sister tried futilely
To get my attention.
I didn't know how this
Was not how most children played;
I didn't know how there was a doctor
Watching me and taking down notes.
We returned to the building at some point.
I had turned 5;
I had started kindergarten.
I was sent into a back room
Where a woman gave me another test.
I was shown pictures of people;
I was told word salad;
I was asked to figure out
What these people were saying;
I was sympathizing more with
These abstractions than with my classmates;
I was identifying the emotions of photographs;
I was filling in blanks on papers.
Pervasive Development Disorder
Not Otherwise Specified.
I didn't know what it meant,
But looking back now,
I wonder why it didn't specify, even though
It's the whole point of a diagnosis.
It's strange how something show vague
Was enough to explain my introversion;
Was enough to describe why my hands
Often fluttered in front of me
Was enough to justify my refusal
To ever look someone in the eye.
Was enough to reveal why I cringed
At loud noises and crowds
And hid under tables
I hope I'm normal enough.
Even now, I stare at faces
Rather than make eye contact;
Even now, I carry my books in my arms
At school, because I'm worried
Of my hands drifting;
Even now, I talk with the people around me
And I worry about what cues I'm missing.
I think about my five year old self,
And now I appear as a long shadow
Of the kindergartener which I used to be.
I am a thin and dim apparition
Trying to break free of not knowing
How my life fits into those around me.
Coming of Age - Faith Christoper, 11
The throne of the present
Is linked to the past
Not in ways I intention
From a psychological path
Of sorrows and traumas
Scarred on the brain
Healed in the heart
Leading to our thought game
Indenial and oblivious
Oh a teenage novice
Behavior will believe equality
But reality states the obvious
Nostalgia be the carrier
Depression was the start
When the cue ball striked the 8 ball
With the point of the nose arched
How Lovely
How lovely does one’s eyes, sparkle in light.
How one’s touch, gentle, no silk could compare.
How one’s love, everlasting, full life.
How one’s beauty, allusive, if be fair.
My soul, empty, ever so I want her.
My mind, abridge, disquiet, I need peace.
My lips, speechless, words cannot register.
My body, still, love is just a belief.
She, a blossom, so divine but graceful.
She, like water, calming, always oneself.
She, not knowing, how her beauty travels.
She, so loving, never scared to show herself.
She, a mystery, invisible and free.
Who is she, I know not, the one to be?
By Dana Thomas