Neurodivergent and proud (poems by Marcella Boccia)

Your voice in the wind’s echo (Marcella Boccia)

Your voice drifts through the valley,A whisper caught in the throat of the mountain,As though the winds themselves were tryingTo hold it—To keep it from fading into the night.It is a voice like the dark of forgotten stars,Soft as the touch of rain on a broken leaf,Heavy with the weight of something unsaid,A song lost to the silence of time.I hear it,Not in the clear light of day,But in the murmur of dusk,When shadows stretch like the fingers of ghosts,And the earth is bruised with the memory of pain.Your voice,It is both promise and sorrow,A flame that burns without light,A fire that feeds on the air,As if it knows the hunger of this world.And still, I chase it,Not to capture it,But to understand the space between each breath,The pause that hangs like a tear on the edge of the world.For in the echo of your voice,I find the silence I cannot fill,The emptiness that calls me home,Even as it pulls me further away.Your voice in the wind’s echo—A love both eternal and forgotten,A song that will never be sung,But whose melody I will carry,Through all the seasons,Until the wind itself has nothing left to say.

Chinar leaves and poetry (Marcella Boccia)

The chinar leaves fall,Crimson tears on the earth,Each one a poem written in the silence of the sky,Each one a breath caught in the throat of time.They flutter like whispers,Carrying the stories of a thousand lost years,And I gather them,Not for their beauty,But for the ache they carry in their veins.The wind sings its song through the branches,A hymn of despair and longing,And I hear it—Not as a melody,But as the language of the earth,The voice of the dead,Echoing through the spaces where love once bloomed.These leaves,They are not just leaves.They are words that do not need to be spoken,Fingers of flame that touch the soul,The memories of a war forgotten by men,But never by the land.They tell of lovers who never met,Of names erased by time,Of dreams that died before they could take root.In this place,Where the chinar trees bleed into the earth,I write poetry,Not with ink,But with the blood of these fallen leaves.Each word a scar,Each line a wound,Each verse a prayer for those who have gone,And for those who will never return.In the shadows of these trees,Where darkness wraps itself around the light,I am both lost and found,Both the writer and the written,Both the leaf that falls and the earth that weeps.

Letter to a distant man (Marcella Boccia)

I write to you,Though you are not here,Not in the space where my breath lingers,Not in the silence that calls your name.Your face is a distant sky—A cloud I chase in the dusk,A horizon I touch only in dreams,As the winds of the past blow me to you,And pull me back to the edge of nowhere.Your voice,Once a song that echoed in my bones,Now fades into the roar of rivers I cannot cross.Yet still, I hear it—soft as the fall of ash,A tremor in the earth,In the spaces where love once lived.I’ve written your name in the scars of my skin,But it disappears,Each time the ink of my memory blurs.Yet, in the corners of my heart,You remain—A shadow stitched into the fabric of my being.I do not ask for you to return.I do not ask for the weight of your absenceTo break me further.I write to you,Not to seek you,But to remind myselfThat even distance cannot erase the hunger,The ache of having known you—For you are both the woundAnd the scar that keeps me alive.And so, in this letter,I leave you as you are,A distant manWho will never know the quiet warThat rages in my soulEvery time I say goodbye.

Your name is a sweet wound (Marcella Boccia)

Your name,A soft blade that cuts the air,A whisper of blood on my tongue,It lingers,Not with bitterness,But with the sweetness of a woundI will never allow to heal.It echoes in my veins,Where silence once bloomed,And now it blooms with pain,Like roses that thrive in the night,Their petals sharp as the longingI dare not speak.Your name is a song I sing in darkness,A melody woven with sorrowAnd the taste of somethingI cannot quite touch—The warmth of a handThat never held mine.It wraps around my heart,A string pulled too tight,A breath I choke onEach time I try to forget,Each time I try to step away—But there is no distanceBetween you and the mark you left.I have learned to love it,This sweet wound,For it is the only part of youThat remains.I kiss it like a secret,A flame that never dies,And I carry it,Proud in its ache,For in its pain,I am both lost and found,A ghost living in the nameYou gave me,Forever.

Words I do not say (Marcella Boccia)

There are words that burn,And I keep them close,Pressed between ribs and regret—They are the secrets I feed to the night.They are the whispers that curlAround the shadows of my soul,Where no light dares to travel,Where silence becomes a language of its own.I have tasted them, bitter as iron,Written them on the walls of my mind,Yet still they stay unspoken,Like fire held in a glass.They are the love I cannot give,The sorrow I cannot spill,The truth too sharp for this world—A blade I clutch with trembling hands.You, who stand on the edge of my thoughts,Will never hear them,For I have learned to wear silenceLike a veil over my heart.And still, beneath this quiet storm,A scream rises, soft as the dawn,But I do not say it—For what is a voice,When the world has already forgotten how to listen?

Writing to you from the edge (Marcella Boccia)

From the edge of a world torn in silence,Where the mountains bleed and the river cries,I write to you, the flame of my thoughts,On pages soaked with moonlight's sigh.Beneath the weight of an ancient sky,I trace your name on the winds that pass,And the echoes of our souls intertwine,Dancing with shadows, flickering like glass.You, who speak in a language of stars,In the softest hum of forgotten days,Your words, like sacred birds, fly so far,Across the borderlines where silence stays.Here, where time is broken and thin,Where history bleeds from every stone,I find myself, caught in the grip of sin,A lover's dream on a war-worn throne.But in this darkness, your voice is light,A beacon that swells in the hollow of night.I send you my truth, veiled in despair,As I stand on the edge—between hope and air.Can you hear me, love, from this hollow sea?Or am I but a shadow lost in the tragedy?

Srinagar between the lines (Marcella Boccia)

The lake whispers in tongues of mist,its breath a veil over forgotten names.Shikaras drift like silent prayers,soft ripples spelling verses only the moon can read.The air tastes of lost letters,unwritten vows, half-formed songs—love that burned in the hush of dawn,grief that lingers between jasmine and ash.Mountains loom, guardians of sorrow,their spines carved with the weight of echoes.Somewhere, a poet stitches silence into rhyme,while a mother folds the night into her palms.Srinagar—written in longing, erased by time,a city etched in ink that never dries.

Neurodivergent and proud (Marcella Boccia)



I do not walk the world in straight lines,nor think in measured whispers.My mind is a constellationwhere stars refuse to stand still,a river that does not askfor permission to flood.They call me disorder,but I am symphony—a chaos of violins in a burning sky,a song too vast for the limits of silence.They call me fractured,but I am mosaic—shattered light woven into meaning,a prism of feeling too wild to contain.I have danced at the edge of oblivion,loved with a fire that devours the night,felt joy like a thunderstormand sorrow like an oceanthat will not let me sleep.Yes, I am different.Yes, I am more.More storm, more softness,more hunger for a worldthat will not shrink to fitthe smallness of their understanding.I refuse to be less.I refuse to be tamed.I wear my wiring like a crown of fire,my mind an uncharted sea,my heart an anthemthat will not be silenced.I am neurodivergent and proud—a wildfire in a world of embers,a voice that will not fade,a universe expandinginside the pulse of my veins.

THE WEIGHT OF BEING ME
I wake to a sky that does not belong to me,to air too thin, too heavy,pressing against the bones of my chestlike an unspoken grief.The mirror does not recognize my face—or perhaps it does,and simply chooses to turn away.I carry myself like a burden,a body filled with too many ghosts,a mind stitched togetherwith the frayed threads of yesterday.Each step I takeis weighted with the echoes of every selfI have ever been—the girl who dreamed in light,the woman who unraveled in the dark.The weight of being meis the silence between words,the space between longing and loss,the ache of a heart that beatsout of time, out of tune,always searching for a rhythmthat will not betray it.I have swallowed my name so many timesthat I no longer know its taste.I have worn a hundred faces,each one a mask slipping from my hands,melting into the spaces where shadows live,where memory wavers like a candleburning at both ends.Tell me,is there a place where the weight of mebecomes lighter?Where the storm inside my ribscan rest,where I am more than a questionwhispered into the void?Or am I fated to carry myselflike an ocean carries the tide—forever pulled,forever drowning,forever returningto shores that will never call me home?

Liquid dissociation


I am the river that cannot hold its form,the water that slips through fingers,too soft to grasp,too swift to see.My thoughts, like currents,flow and break,dissolve into the night,leaving nothing but the taste of salton a tongue too tired to speak.I am liquid—a shape that shattersbefore it takes shape,a reflection that fadesthe moment it is seen.I am the fracture between the selfand the shadow,the moment where time stretches thin,like a thread pulled too farand about to snap.Do you hear the murmursof my soul,the whispers of the oceanthat lives inside me?Each wave, a cry for what is lost,each ripple, a question without an answer.The sea is my mirror—but I am not whole enoughto meet its gaze.I dissolve in the spaces between moments,like rain falling through the cracks of a broken sky,I am caught between becoming and unbecoming,betwixt the shore and the abyss,an edge where nothing stands still,where all is fluid,and the self is only a dreamthat slips through the cracks of the world.I am the weight of a thoughtthat cannot settle,the thirst that no river can quench.In the deep,I am lost to the current,a body that no longer remembershow to stay afloat,a heart that beats in liquid dissociation—a pulse that breaks into the flow of time,forever searching for somethingthat cannot be found.And yet,even in this endless fall,I am the ocean,I am the sky,I am the horizon that never arrives—forever dissolving,forever reborn.