Peanut butter only for me
on my soft bread, between two slices.
Most, maybe eight out of ten,
want jam or jelly, but not me. Please,
please let the taste linger peanut butter
for as long as the flavor will last.

Many might think I am extreme,
but I simply don’t want to distract
from the peanut butter taste.
Waste not your gelatinous jam.
I am not interested in soiling
my bread for the sake of fitting in.

Crunchy or creamy are okay.
Crust on or crust cut off works well.
I prefer no drink to cleanse
my palate from peanut buttered bread.
So please just keep your jelly to yourself.
The rest of us will eat just fine.

P.B. only for me today,
tomorrow, and the next day, as well.
We will get along just fine
in most all other aspects of our
life together, forever, my dear love.
Should you grant me this one politeness.

I look normal, though honestly, I am not.
You wouldn’t know or think twice. Usually my speech or repeating giveaway
A disorder, not fully aware, like to share and explain how it came to be,
The inner struggles, and hopefully food for thought.

My Mom was pregnant with me at forty-two
When the doctor gave her fear, saying I would possibly have Down syndrome or any disability.
But I came out healthy, no problems, double the blessings—-
Being brave and having faith as the breakthrough.

It began one evening when I was only three;
Dinner time was announced, yet I didn’t react or turn around.
My family called my name, screamed, clapped,
Trying to get any attention from me.

One diagnosis was I was becoming deaf;
But up close I could hear just fine, though not everything that was called “normal”
So the solution of having autism was left.

My parents took me to an autism specialist,
And after some tests, came with a smile and said,
“She does not have autism!”
Was the heartfelt testament.

Some signs looked like I have it,
But not correctly, especially how I talked to nurses, keeping their gaze with
A tongue not knowing when to quit.

The long-awaited solution took the form of a rare cause:
Auditory Processing Disorder, or APD for short, was the answer for how I hear and talk.
But for anyone who’s never heard it, come to a confusing pause.

What is APD? What is this disability disorder?
How I explain is like the brain “can’t hear,” may not hear everything,
Even if it was all in order.

For instance, say you tell me three things to do:
I may catch the first instruction, somewhat of the third.
Often the middle I didn’t hear fully, all muddled, not a clue.

I hear just fine, but not always entirely.
My speech sometimes takes work, accidentally repeating.
Visionary learner I proudly am, but everywhere is almost
Auditory teaching is painfully screwing.

I’m a fast learner in many areas, yet slow to learn in other depending sections.
Been jeered by peers growing up for being “slow,” and by teachers and other adults
Thought I was “disobedient” from given directions that
Lead to harsh corrections.

From age four to twelve, twice to three times a week
Having appointments, with different lady teachers, for speech therapy.
Wasn’t grateful then, as I am now, a therapist to a student
Hard at emotional work to teach me the right way to speak.

Almost daily in conversation can be a slip of the mind
It is repeating a topic, a joke, or a feeling that I had mentioned already before.
My words can get mixed up, like “say potato,” which can be misheard as “save turtle.”
I try to make sense, though mentally one thing to find, is give myself grace and be kind.

Even finding a job or more wasn’t always easy;
If misunderstood stepping in leads to overpowering stress, and not getting something
Right make anxiety all the more queasy.

It’s very easy to believe that you’re all alone and can be quite different.
Can be somewhat blessing and curse, though half quiet and kept to self,
Or more ways than one be outgoing or vociferant.

There is great beauty that doesn’t have to be like everyone else:
“I’m not normal, so I’m not boring!”
This world’s too busy to take precious time to see beauty in differences with reassuring
Words that are meant for restoring.

I want to make a difference, a purpose, for those who are like me.
No one is ever perfect. No more focus on what you can’t but focus on what you are able—
The secret of pure joy and growth of life is key.

Being misunderstood does leave a bit of a bruise.
Every day I have a choice to make——self-pity and hide away
Or look for great possibilities for a meaningful life
With an extra mile in my shoes.

I speak, but my words fall through the cracks,
half-heard, half-seen, never fully intact.
They think they know me, think they can tell,
but the pieces they catch are broken as well.
I smile and nod, I play my part,
but none can see the battle in my heart.
They don’t know the silence that shouts inside,
the rage I swallow, the tears I hide.
I try to fit, I try to belong,
but the tune they play is a different song.
I’m not what they expect, not what they want,
a puzzle they try to solve but can’t confront.
I’m too much and too little, a ghost in between,
a person they think they’ve already seen.
But they only catch fragments, never the whole,
they don’t understand the depth of me.
I’m a storm behind a still face,
a maze of thoughts they cannot trace.
Misunderstood, I walk this line,
caught between the world and my mind.
But I’ll keep speaking, even if they don’t hear,
I’ll keep existing, despite the fear.
I am more than they will ever know,
a flame they’ll never let me show.

What is one phrase to describe your life?
Misunderstood

The constant expansion of the universe
A little Pluto stuck within the midst of it
Am I important enough to be a planet?
Yes
No
Yes again
No once more

My head snapping tracing the never concluding question and it’s answers
My heart snapping at the reality
Warm liquid dripping from my eyes

The constant weeping breaking the unstable euphoric episode that lasted for months
Like a broken clock
Don’t bother asking me the time
You know I can’t read the signs

Sent away to get help
“For the sake of you”
But I see the look in your eyes that screams
“For the sake of me”

Because it hurts you to see me like this
But do you understand how much it hurts me to be like this?

Now I’m stuck
The medicine blocking the tears
Shaking in my soul as I become robotic

I’m so sorry I’m tired
I’m sorry I fell asleep first
I’m sorry, it’s my fault
But I’m better this way right?

All of this is worth the lack of a fight
Little Pluto you’re not a planet anymore
So stay quiet
Shove the little pill down your throat
And quiet down
You’re giving me a headache

So I did and now I’m no longer seen
How this truth rips my light out of my flesh
And leaves me a cold lumpy rock
No longer prolific enough to be something important

Swallowed through the universes expansion
Now I’m gone

If only you could step inside my head…maybe, just maybe, then you could understand me instead.

I tend to get judged based on what others think, see, or feel, but how do you know that what I go through isn’t real?

Constantly fighting my brain with things like my emotions or productivity tends to become a daily struggle for me.

I spent so long thinking something was wrong with me. Turns out, I just had undiagnosed ADHD.

See, people don’t understand that my brain just works differently.
I might not be “book smart” but my brain has powerful creativity.

I might seem lazy, but in reality, I’m overwhelmed and exhausted.
I seem distracted or disorganized cause the thing I just had, I already lost it.

People see mood swings and think that I have issues.
Emotional dysregulation is a struggle that I didn’t choose.

Regardless of the bad that people see in ADHD, I invite them to see the good in it too. We’re creative, innovative, and empathetic, to name a few.

Though we may struggle with things like emotions or being organized, ADHD is something that should start being more normalized.

See beyond the stigma and you’ll be surprised at what we can do.
We’re not broken- we’re brilliant, just with a different point of view.

With each farewell of the sun, I gather my thoughts under the company of the moon. It is only under the moon’s light that I feel whole. It is very ironic that I feel the most seen in the darkest conditions. Perhaps it is because no matter how much the sun tries to shed light on my true nature, it is always overlooked. I glisten under the moon’s light, ready to get to the root of my troubles. Each night I have gathered my thoughts into words, waiting to assemble them into the perfect menu. Collected are the starters, how I came to be. Samples of my upbringing, along with childhood joys and sorrows. Some grow impatient, hungry, and eager to skip over to the main course. Here we have what makes me, me. My likes, dislikes, quirks, core values, beliefs, and more. Each ingredient carefully picked and mixed into each dish. All of me is sprinkled into everything because I am never just one key ingredient 24/7. I am all encompassing. This is where the misunderstandings begin. Hungry to get to the root of me, the starters, which is very important in a full course meal, gets skipped. Things I hold dear to me, things that brought me to the woman I am today, seems to not matter to anyone. We skip ahead and make assumptions from the small pictures next to the main course. Written off because certain parts of me doesn’t seem appealing visually. Not even questioning the ingredients that were carefully put together to make me. Not even bothering to ask. I think it is a human trait to assume. As you are reading this you are making assumptions in your head. You can’t help it. So pick your dish. You still may eat it whole and be disappointed. Did you understand what you ate? Do you care to ask what was in it? No. No matter how good it was, you do not ask. You may come back for more one day, but for now you are satisfied. Then we have desserts. The sweetest part of me. Everyone’s favorite. This will all be eaten with a haste as well. After all is gone, the experience is over. Sadly, everyone’s taste buds are different and will never truly understand what I was truly trying to convey. And even if you care to ask me what that is, will you hear me, or will you only listen?

To the world,
I want you to know life isn’t always simple for me. My privacy and strength perpetuate a life of ease. But if only you could see behind the scenes. You don’t know the burden I bear or the stories I’m ashamed to share. I take my grief in stride, it doesn’t mean I haven’t cried. I have a confession, I too, deal with depression. It’s as though being strong means nothing is wrong. Believe it or not, my family isn’t perfect. Some holidays aren’t even worth the drama; I was always taught to respect my momma. They say you have a home and car, the good life can’t be far. It isn’t always all good, it’s that I handle my problems differently than you would. I’m not one for pity parties, so please don’t feel sorry. My mission is for you to understand that, at some point, life has handed us all a dirty hand. Don’t always assume people are fine, instead do the world a favor and always be kind.

Dear reader,
My name is Colleen and I have ADHD. I’m sending this letter in hopes that maybe my words can explain how I have been misunderstood my whole life because of my disability. Having ADHD is confusing enough as it is but there is also navigating the neurotypical world attached to it. Inside my head, my brain is always working overtime. So many ideas, tasks, attempting to stay focused in the moment, memories, worries about the future, and for some unexplained reason, background music 24/7.
Now that you know a little bit about what’s going on in the mind of a 35-year-old ADHD woman, it might be easier to understand why so many conversations I have are met with confusion and misunderstandings. When I am talking to you, I’m trying to navigate between what you are saying and all the thoughts going on in my brain. For example, I may trail off midsentence and jump from one topic to the next. It’s not because you are boring me or I don’t care about what you’re saying, my brain just can’t stay in one place for too long. I will take all your experiences and then tell you about a similar one that I have had. I am not doing this because I think my stories are more interesting than yours or that your experiences don’t matter, my brain just wants to connect our histories, by telling similar narratives, so that we can share and become closer. I might even interrupt you well you’re talking. I’m not trying to be rude, I want to say what I’m thinking right away, or I will probably forget what I was going to say. Even though it is difficult to express myself accurately at times, I promise I am trying my best to be understood.
My hope by writing this, you can try and imagine what it’s like to be someone with ADHD. Communication isn’t always easy and when there are discussions being held, I believe we are all trying to have what we’re saying be acknowledged with interest, love and care. I know that this is the experience of most neurodivergent individuals talking to others and often being misunderstood. As someone who struggles with situations like this frequently, I want to convey how important it is for others to take the time to ask questions, be curious, and have patience when talking to others. You never know what is going on in someone’s head and lives. Maybe when we strive to engage and listen to others then we won’t face misunderstandings any longer. Perhaps, by discovering how others communicate we can learn and grow together.

Sincerely,

why is “time” used as an excuse for the victims as if I haven’t lived my whole life to the beat of a broken clock?

alarms raising suspicion
ever time things feel too good,
waiting for the other shoe to drop, because the other shoe a l w a y s drops the moment I take too many seconds
to affirm the power you have over me. every single minute detail of every “mistake”
I’ve made thrown in my face

as if… you aren’t the one who brought me here?

as if you aren’t the one who created a life you weren’t equipped to handle?
and instead of shifting to a new timeline,
you leap backwards into the one you are the victim and all you can see is the reflection of his face
when he endured enough.

this pain shouldn’t be mine to bear, but because of you,
I’ve spent my whole life repenting
for sins that I didn’t create
because all you saw in this baby girl was someone who you could FINALLY
control.

a poster child,
& debutant doll
who you could corrupt
into thinking the world would do the same to her as it did to you

but to your surprise,
it did… at your hands
& now you’ve turned your back
on the one person you were supposed to protect.

but what if I told you, she prevailed,

she felt her shit, dealt with it,
turned it in to 7 book deals
and is healing her way through self confidence and relationships a
little bit every day.

how dare I, right?
no longer fall victim
to the trap that you set
but instead learned that even a broken clock is right twice a day,

so I accept
that I am a victim
I have been manipulated and abused.

but unlike you,
I took those 2 minutes
and got myself out because I refuse
to live the rest of my life this way.

I want to tell you a story. A story that shows the voice of someone you might know. Just stay there and don’t move and listen, and you’ll hear what I have to say.

The murder of being different

I know I want to be alive
Alive to see my life continue
I want to continue my life
to see it through
I don’t wanna die
I dont wanna die to the shit that I see in me
I don’t wanna die
I don’t wanna die to any of that
I wanna see this through

(I need to be alive)

…

I need to be alive

…

Those that I see
struggle
In the face of pain
suffering
In the grips of addiction
Homelessness
Stigma
To a life of nothing
nothing

(I need to be alive, for them)

I want to be alive
So they can see
me
Be someone they can believe in
Someone they can say
knows what it’s like to be them
Someone they can trust
Someone they can believe
Someone they can see
that’s just like them

I don’t wanna see them die
I don’t want the murder
of being different
to take place

I’m a young man living a life that can kill. And I don’t wanna die. I realize how important it is to overcome that life.

I heal. And I can see the struggle that others have. I can’t fall back to what I use to do. It’s too important to live. Others need to know they’re not alone. That they don’t have to die. To what almost killed me.

…

Young people in the community of color. They don’t have what they need in life. What they need to know. What they need to survive. What they need to live. And what they need to succeed.

That voice of struggle that you hear. It’s from a young man. A statement of intent. A statement of survival. A statement of hope. A statement that their life matters too. To them.

That voice. Is me. I want them to see me. See my healing. See me in them too. I’m different too. And theres value in that. It’s not fair to be judged. Persecuted. Killed for being different.

The decisions made. By men like him. Different than you. Maybe not different than me…

But were still people too.

I needed help too.

See that I see myself in them too.

It means that these young men and women make different decisons. Not the same as you. Maybe the same as me.

this man. young men and women in struggle.

And sometimes not the best

Men that are different. Men that see lofe different

Not the same as you. Maybe the same as me. Sometimes we make bad decisions.

Being this different causes murder of the soul.

I am loving, I am caring I am kind
But you don’t see because insecurities make you blind

I give freely; I love hard
But my sincerity you disregard

My attitude is one of servitude
To you this may seem odd
But it’s a reflection of being a child of GOD

I give props when props are due
To this I will stay true

You want titles, a pat on the back and accolades
When I comment you think I’m throwing shade

I see the potential in you that others overlook
Your eyes show you have a magnetic hook

I apologize at times my words may be sharp and blunt
But it’s 2025 and there is no time to front

Life is short, we only passing thru
Time to wake up and do what we gotta do

I’m a straight shooter
But what you don’t know is that I’m a mentor and tutor

I give as much as I take
But I don’t have time to be fake

Don’t have time to be sugar coating
For the world to be out their boasting

The way I live, the way I talk, the way I act
This all real it’s just straight up facts

No one wants to see me for who I am
Always thinking I’m running a scam

All I want is for everyone to live and love better
Come together so we can make some of this cheddar

No matter what I do or how I try
Someone always twisting the truth into a lie

Why can’t you see, I just wanna be me

I’m just a real sista from the hood
That’s been mis-judge and mis-understood

So, just let me be
Cause you don’t know me

Dear World,

I’m exhausted. I can’t keep doing this.

I’m trying to be the girl you need me to be—the happy sister, the daughter you can boast about, the cousin you admire, the friend you can always turn to. But it’s all crumbling down. The walls are closing in, and the floor shatters beneath each step I take.

I feel weak. I feel numb. I feel empty.

Every hurdle drains another drop from my lifeline, and I don’t know if I have enough left to keep standing. I try to explain my pain, hoping you might help me, understand me, or even sympathize with me. But no. Instead, you mock me. You tell me to deal with it, to dust myself off, to keep going—as if my suffering is just an inconvenience to you.

I have given him my all. I have given up the person that I am for him. I have given up my bonds, my roots, my connections—just to keep him afloat. I have taken care of him from the moment I laid eyes on him because I knew he was my treasure. I knew he was worthy of so much more in this life.

I showed him the beauty of the world. I showed him how incredible it is to be alive.

Yet now, I am nothing. I am invisible. And no one seems to grasp why that has shattered me. No one sees how I poured my heart and soul into loving and nurturing him. I made sure the world saw only the best in him. And in the end, that kindness has come back to haunt me.

Because now, everyone treats me like I’ve lost my mind for ever wanting to walk away from the best thing that ever happened to me.

When they can’t open their eyes and realize…

I am what happened to him.

I am trying to hold on to the one person I love most in this world, but he isn’t growing with me. As I fight to shatter these walls and climb out of the pit I’ve fallen into, he sinks deeper. I reach for him, trying to bring him with me, but he is nowhere near.

I tell you that having him around is draining me, that his sorrow is suffocating me, that his weight is pulling me under. And yet, all you say is, That’s how it’s meant to be. You are meant to save him.

But the moment I decide to save myself?
The moment I put my foot down?
Suddenly, I am the enemy.
I am a tyrant.
I am the monster.

When I am sick, when I am weak, when I collapse because I cannot keep going, I find myself alone. And yet, he—he is the one surrounded by love, by compassion, by endless care.

Weren’t you, dear World, the one who brought me here? The one who was supposed to love me, to protect me, to see me?

Then why do you shed tears for him while casting me aside, as if my suffering does not exist?

It’s crazy to think that they try to convince me that because you were there while I was at the brink of life, that somehow means I owe it to you to stay by your side. That somehow, that means everything else should mean nothing. That everything else should seem like minor issues that will simply resolve themselves.

But truly.

Am I misunderstood?

Should I really feel misunderstood?

But maybe the truth isn’t that I am misunderstood. Maybe the truth is… you never wanted to understand me at all.

Because truly, these opinions are coming from places that lack so much knowledge and depth.

This set of mountains
moves west, and wester still
until they move north and south
following the six directions.
Their crags speak to the sky
of the events below,
all in the rocky languages
poorly understood by those bound to two feet.
Caressing the earth in moccasins,
he, or was it she
looks about in the craggy heights
for a handhold
in the pegmatite faces of canyons
the reds and blacks in the most deeps,
those purples of sheerness
keeping the less adventurous at bay.
Coming down to the valley
below the gorges of distance barely seen
she, or was it he, knows
that off in the yonder reaches
there might just be a place in that bigness,
to drive their thoughts to.
An abandoned two story ranch house
sits the still, its invisible solitude
quiet now of children’s voices.
The hand split shingles on the roof
still keep the weather out
both the harsh winter snows and warm summer rains
don’t touch the singularity of a dry interior
as if waiting for the family to return
from where they disappeared to, so long ago.
That ranch house perched on the mountain side
has the cook house and porch attached
where a descendant has placed new tin
over it. Then left it again.
And there, under that
is the place where the questions
may have gotten answered,
and maybe not,
perhaps just having raised those inquiries
into the meanings of the lives lived
under the eaves.

A bright, powerful, raging flame.
That flame is designed to burn and spread.
So, it is met with fear—contained, controlled, and extinguished.

Creating orders to always:
Maintain the concrete box around the fire, stoking its flames as intended.

Lavish in the heat exuded from the tiny air holes provided.

Withhold fuel.

Pour water on its red-hot embers to seek amusement in the sizzle and steam.

And most importantly, keep the knowledge of its power a secret—don’t let fire know it’s fire!

But fire will always do what it is meant to do—even if it lingers among embers, conserving energy.

Unrestrained, fire embraces its natural design—boundless, exuberant, transformational.

Some may see only destruction in the flames,
but fire brings creation just as much as it brings ruin.

Only fire determines its true purpose.

Sparks ignite to share light and warmth,
providing and transforming—not just to consume, but to sustain life itself.

She wasn’t a normal person. She was different.
Her hair was medium length, soft and wavy, falling in such a way to frame her face. She had eyes that shone as bright as gems, a green Moissanite shade. Her voice was gentle and quiet, with a raspiness that made her singing voice naturally lower than most women (an Alto). She had a slight lisp and stuttering problem, so she struggled to articulate herself verbally.
She was so intelligent. She loved to read and learn new things. There was a plethora of random facts that she knew, things learned from school and books that she had never forgotten because they were so interesting to her. When she focused on something, 9 times out of 10 she could figure it out for herself without any help. But she wasn’t just book smart.
She was street smart as well. After the life she’d lived, she knew how to outsmart others for the safety of herself and her family. She knew deep down when a person or place wasn’t safe to be around, and she voiced those concerns to those close to her in the hopes they’d listen (which while growing up, no one really did listen until it was too late).
m
She held her head high and purposefully ignored the looks she’d receive from others while in public. She didn’t consider herself beautiful- she was a bigger woman, short too- but that didn’t stop people from staring at her, nonetheless. She knew that half of those looks were full of hatred and disgust from cruel, judgmental people, while the other half were full of lust and desire from men; men she had no interest in being around.
She was bullied as a child, so it didn’t faze her that grown adults had that same attitude toward her even still. She was made fun of for things outside of her control- her voice, her height, her shyness- and it was no surprise that despite her natural beauty, she was called ugly as well. It took decades for her to finally believe that she was perfectly and wonderfully made, exactly the way she was.
She had such a big heart, full of love and compassion for every living thing. She felt deep sadness when witnessing others picking flowers to keep in a vase or causing harm to a poor defenseless animal. She stood up for what was right and wrong, even if others disagreed or mocked her for it. She knew that showing love and kindness went much further than hate and ridicule.
She was sure of her purpose in life; spread love, joy, and respect to everyone regardless of their past or present. She had her limits, though. She was entirely uninterested in truly evil people (like those in office, for example), knowing when to dust herself off and move along when her love and presence were unwanted.
She wasn’t perfect by any means. She was only human, after all. But she tried every day to become a better version of herself, to reconsider old patterns and habits that inhibited her from reaching her full potential. She was patient, and honest. She was so full of optimism and hope, not only for herself and her own life, but for others and their lives as well. She could always find the silver lining for those who needed a glimmer of the hope she had. She was a good listener, and she truly cared for others in a way that made the world scoff. But she could not and would not ever stop being who she was.
No one had to understand her; she understood herself. No one had to love her; she loved herself. No one had to give her anything for her to be happy; she already was. The power she possessed was more than enough for her to make a change in this world, and she knew that.
Now it was time for the world to know.

This is my poem for the contest.

Fool’s Gold.
As I melt away,
Fragments pouring out.
In crystal shards or tears,
A clear substance.
So irregular in shape.
Am I pulled apart, or was I never whole?
Built up through pieces of pieces,
Glued together to represent some semblance of a being.
Would it even be Kintsugi?
The wasted gold, even that will melt.
I am the finest particle;
Smallest in my existence.
Mold me into anything,
Melt the glass and give it shape.
Breathe life into me, and I will be.
I will venture forth.
But the stronger the gust and I will shatter.
And who will hold me then?
Am I bound to the same fate yet again?
The tacky, sticky liquid that forces my arm to my leg.
My limbs are wrong.
I don’t look like this, or at least I didn’t.
What did I look like?
I don’t remember.