The Infant's Song

Transparency & AI Disclosure

This is the second in a series of gothic ballads related to being autistic.

I sang it with instrumental accompaniment:

Disclosure: Some post processing effects were used—such as reverb—but the voice is my own.

Behind a bolted door, they preach concern;
That nursery tone they use to sound benign;
They don their crooked smiles each in turn
And lock the world away—to keep me blind.

They preach of pity, pure and clean,
Of prayers meant to make me fit their mold;
They grind me down to something tame
And call my ruin—gentle, kind, and bold.

They speak to me through infant locks
They twist their morals, words, and rules,
Handing me wooden crowns and numbered blocks
To keep a genius trapped among their fools.

They preach of pity, pure and clean,
Of prayers meant to make me fit their mold;
They grind me down to something tame
And call my ruin—gentle, kind, and bold.

They build a cradle from my broken spine,
And carve a happiness from stolen bone;
They whisper lullabies like all is fine,
Then act surprised by what they’ve grown.

This world loves boxes lined up neat,
Each color parked where it’s supposed to stay—
Like painted blocks upon a baby’s sheet,
And every life told where to lay.

No more toys. No more infant’s song.
The mask is gone, and your pity sore.
You kept the lie alive far too long—
I’m done hiding behind your bolted door.

Thanks for reading.

If you like what I do, help me hit 1500 subscribers by September 1st.

If you are already subscribed, consider helping me do this full-time.

Get 30% off for 1 year

Tip Jar

First ballad in this series can be found here: