Michael Russell

MichaelRussellMagician, wordsmith, leaping over tall buildings of words in a single bound.

Looking, not Finding

Just a little person inside a big person
Just a small fragile child with no eyes
With no ears
With no arms
No eyes to see love and people who smile
No ears to hear words of kindness and care
No arms to hold up to the big people to ask for help
No arms to lift up for a cuddle
Reach out for a kiss
No arms no arms
Looking, looking for a friend
How can he find a friend with no eyes? No ears? No arms?
Just a little person who weeps
Just a little
Weeping weeping weeping
Greeting each day with a howl of pain
And greeting each night with despair
And an aching ache
Weeping weeping weeping


Why did you do this to me,
Why am I autistic and a genius,
Why couldn’t I be normal and a genius?
What the fuck!


My body is a temple to sex and love and all its delights.
My body sings with joy and luscious licking lips.


My voice pure with sensitivity, but it stings my throat and doesn’t move from there.
It sings in angelic tones, audible only to the sensitive souls
who wander the silent realms of deep space.


My bones are strange, fearsome, warriors of fanatical powers,
they carry me onwards in my journey to the stars.
I have hidden wings and the bones are light and invisible,
filled with words that keep me aloft.


My sex is purely in my mind,
my body doesn’t seem to be able to understand what the hell to do.
When all circumstances are ready and able and willing, I need help.


It was a very simple thing.
It only lasted a few minutes but he was delighted and thrilled.
She looked at him for a fleeting moment
and his heart leaped in his throat desperate to fly to her and throw himself at her feet.
Then she turned and left the room and he was alone again
and his heart, like a small creature in a burrow, soft and warm and comforted.


The words shape the writer (the day I first found FC and words).

It was very sad and lonely and dark.  He was very quiet and meek and humble.  He didn’t have any sort of personality, but he was not a zero.  He was a something, but not a particular sort of something.  He was a vague, weirdly shaped blob of stuff−stuff that wobbled and oozed and blobbed and jellied.  He felt so amazed at the edges suddenly appearing around him−edges shaped with words.  Edges shaped with words that fell from his fingers and fell on to the floor and stuck to the walls and dripped from the ceiling.  The words shaped him.  The words shaped the world around him.  The words shaped his breathing.  The words shaped his mind.  The words gave him a shape.  I am Mike he said.  I am me!  I am a person!  I am not a blob!  I am a feeling, thinking person!  I have thoughts!  They are my thoughts!  I have a heart!  I can feel!  I am a person who is happy or sad or gross or sweet!  I am my thoughts!  I am my words!  I am!  I am!  I am!

Writing is a magical tool.  I like to write about things that have affected me, now and in the past.  It is therapeutic.  I also like writing fiction.  It’s an escape and a different life for me.  Living through fantasy is great.