Poem- “My Pronouncing Behavior”

“My Pronouncing Behavior”

My original flaw should be known to you at this point in my literature.

The biggest problem I have with me personally speaking is this word:

“Punctuality.”

I get very smart with vocabulary beyond understanding at times.

Coming to my senses is always unique and particular for me.

When I was a baby, I was usually awake all night, every night.

My mom saw that I was a very unusual baby.

I would just be awake all night as a baby infant while watching TV.

As a 3-year old, I was banging my head on the floor from an ear infection.

I was trying to calm my nerves and cartoons were giving me bad ideas.

So, my parents took me to the doctor and fixed my ear up from surgery.

But my mental problems did not end.

By kindergarten, I was diagnosed with numerous mental disorders.

Half of my mental disorders are still unknown to this day and age.

Of course, I had attention deficit disorder; or, at least the doctor believed so.

The first day of kindergarten school was a total disaster for me.

I was wild and crazy.

My TV watching habits were like those of patients with autism.

No one was really sure what I had.

2nd and 3rd grades in school became my contradictions of innocence.

Many teachers did not enjoy hearing my perseverating questions.

By 3rd and 4th grades in school, a Math teacher attached a microphone to me.

She was speaking microphone and I heard her from a speaker on my shirt.

I was often too much of a distraction in class.

My head was spinning with psychological strings and imaginary abstract.

Middle school was almost a disaster for me.

I ruined my performance in a concert for Music class and made teacher upset.

Reading musical notations was too hard and my parents wanted quiet.

As a result, I was a good loser in Music class.

I sucked at the trumpet.

I hurt the piano.

Poetry writing of my own was still in development for the future.

In high school, my Special Ed teacher diagnosed me with autism.

She said my penmanship was legible but immature.

My mom told her I just had attention deficit disorder and it was harmless.

I could not remember Abraham Lincoln’s speech in American English class.

I could not get any dialect for the speech in weak memory.

In Hollywood, I was a lame, practicing actor with dating problems.

Restaurant managers in Los Angeles were jealous of my edge and intellect.

To Southerners from the South, I always sounded mean.

In London, England, the taxi cab driver did not think I even had a dialect.

He said, “You don’t sound like an American at all.”

To my black girlfriend in Sacramento, California, I sounded old.

She said, “Your voice; you sound like a 50-year old man.”

I was only 21 years old in our relationship at the beginning.

I also had an Asian girlfriend, a Mexican buddy, and a Norwegian guest.

My voice was lost in the spectrum of various cultures in California.

Soon, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia and mood disorder.

Many friends were conservatives; many friends were liberals.

People were confusing me at the state university.

During childhood, I watched way too much TV.

Now, I don’t watch TV much; TV sometimes makes my eyes wet in pain.

I go to bed with voices in my own personal awareness.

My mom was worried about my caffeine addiction.

She wanted “her Alex back” to her.

California was full of failing country lifestyles.

I was still a night owl.

I would travel the streets of Sacramento after 9pm.

A Spanish class student believed my voice sounded Russian.

A fast food worker in Ventura, California believed I sounded German.

A pizza restaurant customer in Tehachapi, California believed I sounded Irish.

A person with autism looked at me and did not believe I had autism.

I was looking sharper and voicing accurate tones in my recent years of age.

But, from my family upbringing, I never really had a dialect.

My words were always specific of unique choice and hard to reach.

While attending Special Education, I was reading AP English.

AP English was a class in high school for very literate vocabulary.

One teacher was a Mark Twain fan and told me I should be a poet.

For a long time, I did not accept poetry as my real passion.

But, from visiting ex-cowboys in Sacramento, I got into the writing style.

At first, from leaving university, my poems were word salads.

With enough practice and patience, I turned it around.

My parents were never very understanding of my language.

My “normal” behavior was never quite normal to anyone.

I talked with Italian immigrants.

I talked with Russian immigrants.

I talked with Japanese immigrants.

I talked with Brazilian immigrants.

I heard both Thai and Catalan and read Muslim poetry from Spain.

Today, I just don’t have the communication people expect me to have.

So, I say nice things in public and mind my own affairs.

https://www.deviantart.com/gameuniverso/art/My-Pronouncing-Behavior-951655065