Music, Poetry

Darling This Is War


Locked in a rolling truck
I been running out of luck
And I don’t give a fuck
And I’m looking for the door
Maybe something’s here
Or maybe this is fear
Everything’s unclear
I can’t do this anymore

I don’t give a piss
And I’m all done with this
I won’t blow a kiss
And I’m looking for the door
Maybe something’s here
Or maybe this is fear
Everything’s unclear
But I’ve lived through this before

I don’t give a lick
Dear jesus suck my dick
Existence makes me sick
And I’m looking for the door
Maybe something’s here
Or maybe this is fear
Everything’s unclear
And I want to hit the floor

I don’t give a shit
Please satan lick my slit
Dear, I’m throwing a fit
And I’m looking for the door
Maybe something’s here
Or maybe this is fear
Everything’s unclear
But darling this is war

~Sarah Davenport 2014

*calm down it’s poetry

Music, Poetry

While All The World


Sometimes all I need is time
A drink of gin a glass of wine
A quiet place to clear my head
While all the world has gone to bed

Sometimes all I need is talk
A hand to hold me up to walk
A city street and empty shops
While all the world around me drops

Jumping forward moving time
I’m on a ledge and I should climb
But all I want to do is fall
While all the world is standing tall

Find me drunken find me lost
Find me worth less than I cost
Find the bullet in my eye
While all the world lives in the sky

~Sarah Davenport 2014

*no worries just exercising freedom if expression, it’s poetry


The Truth About The Truth


When people hear, see, feel, or read a truth, even if it’s not their own, they run to it. They run to it and want to grab on because life is so fictitious.

Truth is precious. And people innately recognize that.

Some will run, but that’s ok.

Here’s the truth about the truth:

When I hear someone say (you’ve heard this before) “I’m not being a jerk, I’m just telling the truth” or “People think I’m being a dick because I tell the truth.” or “People can’t handle the truth” there’s more, they vary. But you’ve likely said or heard this, many times. It disturbs me. Because I feel like in general people like to believe that their truth is the way, the truth, and the fucking life. * pardon my French, this gets me upset. And not at anyone in general, not even at the people who say this.

It’s just this strange belief most humans have in common. That their truth is the ace of spades, and they go around collecting friends who also have the ace of spades, because strength in numbers, right? It’s like the game of Go Fish whoever collects the most matching cards wins.

But why is it a competition? Why does anyone think they know someone else’s truth. Why do we have to share truths to connect with each other?

I often literally judge books by their cover, I’m guilty of that. But I’m talking about hardbacks and paperbacks, novellas. This is the curse of a visual person.

But I digress. Shit like People of Walmart, or taking pictures of random strangers buttcracks, posting, and mocking them in a public forum. It’s no different than looking someone you think you know in the face and saying “how it is” for them. What’s wrong with their diet, attitude, lifestyle, religion, politics. Stop people shaming and shut the fuck up already. Ok?


People can’t handle “the” truth, as they say, because most often the truth is your truth, not theirs.

The truth about the truth; truth is subjective, yes! My scientist friend, if you’re reading this, I just said that. Truth is not about what you can prove, with research, and data. It’s a coping mechanism.

The truth is that people will genuinely believe in something just as unbelievable as…. whatever your definition of an unbelievable truth is. *I plead the fifth here, as to avoid further offense after my French lesson. As long as it makes them feel good. If that means joining a mass of people and talking to a man in the sky, or buying an orthopedic pillow because you spent your day hunched over a microscope, no socks with sandals, red and pink don’t match and you should never wear those colors together, reading the horoscope every single day, knock on wood… I could go on.

The truth about the truth, and what people will come out of the woodwork to hover in it’s glow for is; when someone reveals their own personal truth.
Like unrobing Michelangelo’s David.

When people break down and cry: we see it coming out. When people laugh so hard their faces contort, when they hee and haw like braying donkeys: we hear it. When someone sings a lyric they wrote, or walks to the rhythm of a song: we feel it.

The truth about the truth is that we’ll never really know anyone else’s truth but our own. Maybe if more people realized that we would be willing to share our truths more openly. And we’d all have a better understanding of what truth really is.



A Black Dot


Life is nothing more than a rumor, the old game of telephone, drinking icy water until it hits you – your mouth is full of sand. It’s a mirage. A facade. A black dot on a white canvas sold for two million dollars – because of a signature. While a million unknown artists stay up all night painting, perfecting every stroke, in their studio apartments with a communal bathroom – in which they can barely afford.

The spiral highways that make you believe you’re going somewhere… only to end up at a dead end. The never ending hallway at the hotel and forgetting your room number. Big sunglasses hiding a perpetual black eye.

And a 100 year old broken down shack of a church, that you stumbled upon in the middle of nowhere and don’t entertain investigating, because you already know it’s empty. You know even then; when the roof wasn’t caved in, the walls fresh of white paint coating the reality of a dead tree, and the pews were full.

It was always empty.

People getting away with murder living in mansions with guards, security cameras, inside of high walls and locked gates. While the pure hearted homeless man I talked to – was found floating in the river the next morning because he fell asleep on a hill and dreamily rolled into the water and nobody knew his name.

Nobody knew his name.

I didn’t ask his name.

It’s the bitter nights, the haunting scream of stray cats – fighting – yowling, like a helpless baby left on the doorstep of an empty 100 year old church, and a mother who lost all hope, ready to go by way of the homeless man in the river – all in one.

And then you wake up one day, sit outside, gripping the handle of a hot cup of coffee, a clear morning sky, the sound of doves cooing, the feeling of your bare feet letting the soft green grass stand up in between your toes, and the smell of fresh, overgrown, unkempt, flowering chives, and it’s just enough… to keep you going.

~Sarah Davenport 2014


Stop Drinking All The Tea *Thoughts About Autism


I have known about scripting for three years. My fiancé first told me about it because of some of the kids he’s worked with. He was told it was a sort of escape or place an autistic will go to get away. And to not let it go too far because interrupting a script can lead to meltdown.

AHHH! People!

This is why learning about autism from NON-autistics *Neorotypicals* is so backwards. We’re getting neorotypical evaluations and therapies for people who’s minds are wired completely different than the majority rule. We’re being naive, stubborn, and dishonest with ourselves if we think the answer to helping people on the spectrum lies in our way of thinking, and from our experience of living. We’re being ignorant, and naive in thinking the majority get’s superiority over final say of a minority.

I’m so ready for therapies to be developed by people on the spectrum. Hindering the voices of autistics is perpetuating so much false information, not always on purpose. But sometimes the intent doesn’t matter, not when it leads to oppression, and furthers suffering. At some point society is going to have to face that the Neorotypicals don’t have all the answers, and simply can’t.

Asking someone who does not live on the spectrum what it’s like, is like wanting to know what coffee tastes like, and making tea believing it will give you enough simulation to know.

From the video below, I learned JUST now, after three years of believing I already knew, what scripting really is. And I’d been misinformed.

The fact that my fiancé was trained by “autism experts” and taught about scripting, and given misinformation is a great example for why we need to do everything we can to encourage and empower autistic voices.

This young lady, is saying scripting is actually an autistic coming out in their own way to engage or express themself, not to avoid reality.

Hmm, yeah… I would probably meltdown down too actually, if I was trying to interact/express myself/ or engage with the people in my environment, and made to stop. It would probably feel like being told “What you are saying has no value, so be quiet” when to an autistic individual who participates in scripting, this choice script could have been selected for a variety of reasons, and has a purpose, and applies in some context to their current environment, mood, etc.

My fiancé has been taught in his special training courses that scripting was like going to another world as to avoid this one.

Living in another world, and trying to engage in the existing one: Those are two VERY different things.

I could write a book on 30 years personal experience living as a bipolar, and you would be able to retell my story, and understand me better for it. But until you’ve truly experienced my life. You will never know it better than me.

I talk about autism a lot. And I do take opportunities to be informative. But I’m never going to pretend like my voice should be heard over the people actually living it. And one of the key points I’m zooming in on more and more, when people ask me questions is to say, you know what? This is how I understand it, but the most accurate way to learn about autism is to simply ask someone living with autism, read a blog, watch youtube videos, books, documentaries made by autistics. Information is everywhere.

It’s time to hand over the microphone and let autistics speak for themselves.

It’s time to encourage our friends to go to the source for insight. It’s time to let go of being the expert. It’s time share, like, comment, on social media pages and posts by autistics. If they are able to be a voice it is our job to support that and help spread the Truth.

And if you’re an adult, or young adult it’s time to seek out autistic friends and turn those articles, and campaigns, and statistics into human beings we actually care about. We are veering towards a future where autism will be prominent in every community. And it’s time to start learning about each other on a personal level now.

Don’t let autism become the next civil rights movement. When will we learn and take the initiative? When will we learn from history, as it’s been shown over and over to do extensive damage to any growing population of minorities.

It’s time to take interest in neorodiversity because this will affect you someday, if it doesn’t already. Let it be an open, positive, honest, exciting experience. Let an autistic person tell you things about their realities to help you better understand, and better want to further support for their right to a voice.

Let it change your perspective. Welcoming new and different personalities in your life will inspire you, I promise.




YOLO in Hell


YOLO in Hell | DavsArt


Shout YOLO from beyond the grave, before realizing that you’re dead.

If YOLO turns from teenybopper slang into a horrific realization of truth, you know you’re in hell.


A place where novelty acronym colloquialism rules the land, and hardcover books get cut up and made into decorative art. Books have been replaced with modern magic eight balls that tell you if you’re a hippy or jock after five generic question quiz… and somehow you secretly believe it’s true. You like the pretty pictures of the flowers in their hair. You got the hippie. You read nutrition labels on at the grocery store. So it must be true. But nobody reads leather bound books in hell.


Where they make sexy bras for four year old girls, and all the baby boy clothes are blue and have footballs and trucks printed on the front. Because in hell your gender has everything to do with your genitals and nothing to do with your soul, there are no souls in hell.


Where hierachy begins in the pockets of those who climbed a human ladder, stepping on the backs and the shoulders of whoever’s lever would bring them closer to the top, crushing finger bones into dust, and loyalty into a piece of human flesh stuck between the treads on the bottom of those thousand dollar shoes.


Where accepting differences is dangerous because we don’t have the love in us to connect with others who do not share our ideologies. Our taste in music, style, religion, politics. Social status depends on equity in possessions, rather than equity of love. There is no love in hell


Where who you are, and what you think comes from everything you’ve ever known. Your shoes match your belt because you read that in Style magazine. Lavender is the trending color, all the malls feature lavender, and so do you. Nobody does the robot anymore, because nobody does the robot anymore. There is no pure identity in hell, everyone is made up of influences from other already existing influences. There are no individuals in hell.


YOLO! YOLO! YOLO! I shout as I click my seven dollar and fifty-eight cent gold shoes three times in a row.

But nothing changes.

Y O L O ! This time shouting with desperation. Pulling at my hair in hysteria, as the realization slithers up my back like a snake.

Nothing’s changing.

YOLO! I cry.

~s.davenport 07/15/14