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Description
This is a poem about auditory-tactile synesthesia and misophonia.

The world unfurls in whispers, textures sing,
Each rustle, sigh, a symphony untold,
But then it strikes, a dissonance that stings,
A sonic shard, my sanctuary grows cold.

The symphony sours, harmony now lost,
A siren's wail, a drill that bores the mind,
My sanctuary breached, a mental cost,
My fight or flight a desperate design.

It's not the sound, a mind unwired sees,
A thousand pins that prickle, twist, and crawl,
A brutal dance of textures, sharp and cold,
That sets my senses screaming, one and all.

The world I built, with threads of sound so fine,
A tapestry of whispers, soft and true,
Dissolves in waves of fury, harsh and blind,
A brutal war where beauty used to bloom.

Misunderstood, the battle rages on,
An unseen storm within a tranquil shell,
The world unseen, where gentle sounds have gone,
Replaced by spikes that pierce and make me yell.

But through the storm, a whisper finds its way,
A single note, a birdsong, pure and clear,
It cuts the din, a beacon in the gray,
And for a moment, peace begins to reappear.

In the midst of chaos, a solace found,
Through spoken verse, the tumult's edge is smoothed,
Each word a balm, where pleasurable sounds abound,
In synesthetic hues, my spirit soothed.

The rhythm, like a gentle touch, enfolds,
With every line, a texture, soft or sharp,
A dance of sound and touch that ne'er grows old,
In poetry's embrace, my senses warp.

So let the world misunderstand, it may,
This hidden war within a tranquil guise,
But in the silence, strength finds its own way,
And beauty's echo softly never dies.

The tapestry endures, though threads are torn,
And I will mend, with patience, piece by piece,
For in the quiet, lessons can be born,
And understanding blooms, to bring release.

This spoken art, a sanctuary made,
Where words become the touch, the warmth, the chill,
A tapestry where sound and sensation braid,
And every syllable a touch that thrills.

Beneath the storm, a whispering retreat,
Where verses paint a world so vast and sweet.

Description
This is a poem about auditory-tactile synesthesia and misophonia.

The world unfurls in whispers, textures sing,
Each rustle, sigh, a symphony untold,
But then it strikes, a dissonance that stings,
A sonic shard, my sanctuary grows cold.

The symphony sours, harmony now lost,
A siren's wail, a drill that bores the mind,
My sanctuary breached, a mental cost,
My fight or flight a desperate design.

It's not the sound, a mind unwired sees,
A thousand pins that prickle, twist, and crawl,
A brutal dance of textures, sharp and cold,
That sets my senses screaming, one and all.

The world I built, with threads of sound so fine,
A tapestry of whispers, soft and true,
Dissolves in waves of fury, harsh and blind,
A brutal war where beauty used to bloom.

Misunderstood, the battle rages on,
An unseen storm within a tranquil shell,
The world unseen, where gentle sounds have gone,
Replaced by spikes that pierce and make me yell.

But through the storm, a whisper finds its way,
A single note, a birdsong, pure and clear,
It cuts the din, a beacon in the gray,
And for a moment, peace begins to reappear.

In the midst of chaos, a solace found,
Through spoken verse, the tumult's edge is smoothed,
Each word a balm, where pleasurable sounds abound,
In synesthetic hues, my spirit soothed.

The rhythm, like a gentle touch, enfolds,
With every line, a texture, soft or sharp,
A dance of sound and touch that ne'er grows old,
In poetry's embrace, my senses warp.

So let the world misunderstand, it may,
This hidden war within a tranquil guise,
But in the silence, strength finds its own way,
And beauty's echo softly never dies.

The tapestry endures, though threads are torn,
And I will mend, with patience, piece by piece,
For in the quiet, lessons can be born,
And understanding blooms, to bring release.

This spoken art, a sanctuary made,
Where words become the touch, the warmth, the chill,
A tapestry where sound and sensation braid,
And every syllable a touch that thrills.

Beneath the storm, a whispering retreat,
Where verses paint a world so vast and sweet.