Ode to Asperger's (Revision 2)

[TimeOut]

I pretty much go along with mercedes' technical critique; it's the diagnosis that bothers me.

You're describing "attention deficit disorder", not "Asperger syndrome".

Im going to critique this poem in another comment, but I have to address this one comment in particular. The title is obviously very intentional, and unless you are in a position to categorize or diagnose someone, please shut up. You obviously have no idea what it's like to be on the spectrum.
The OP responded to this comment two months ago. Stepping in now with "Shut up" is uncalled for. Please use the PM system or Pig's Arse to crit a crit and address your critique to the poem, as you did below. /mod

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Ode To Asperger's Revision 2

The world's too close; and never safe or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there
beyond my door: it's chaos and old pain. I think 'familiar' would work instead of 'old'. Old implies past, but clearly the speaker is not past it.
I want to drive somewhere, so I must bear Really forced rhyme. Instead of 'so I must bear' try 'without a care'
my old garage door's perforating din. 'To escape my old garage...
Unraveling, I climb into the car;
the seat-belt viciously abrades my skin.
No choice; each time I have to go too far.

I see each single leaf and piece of trash
across the floor; before the car's in gear 'floor' is not specific enough. Is it the floor of the car? Maybe try 'I see each single leaf and piece of trash flash in my peripheral'
I'm rattled by a buzzing in the dash;
a squeal as well, that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil; Lose essential oil. You need a more visceral olfactory image to go with exhaust and dog.
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.

Dried water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
are overlays that move and disappear
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist I see them near: The language in this line is labored. 'A dozen things I see relentless in my rear' (a suggestion)
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.

Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear) Play with time in this line. You have a great start to this stanza. 'Backwards, but so fast forward' (suggestion again)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
So far it isn't fun, but still time flies you could add '(or crawls)'
as dread accumulates: a tidal wave
created from impending mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave. Weak. 'Pupils restricted, sudden light to my cave' (I dont know, something like that...)

My self-reliance dictates policy,
(It always does, regardless of my fear.)
I sell an apt pretence of normalcy
but even so, the effort costs me dear. Forced rhyme again. 'Shift my conscious effort into gear."  
My neck's as stiff as steel when I arrive
and sidle in, avoiding every eye. Love this. Eye contact avoidance is very real.
I shrug my way past chattiness; contrive,
with every unmet glance, my alibi.

So no-one knows that I've got what it takes,
or calls to mind a word I left unsaid. 'words that hang unsaid or said'
I'll leave sometime before my patience breaks,
and once I'm gone, I might as well be dead.

Revision 1
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
I want to drive somewhere, so I endure
the shrieking metal door of my garage;
then tense as seat-belt webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a fraying wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear;
assaulted by a rattle in the dash,
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
Behind the wheel, I catalogue the smells:
exhaust;  the dog;  a spilled essential oil;
damp wool;  deodorant.  My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water-spots on rear-view mirror glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My self-reliance dictates policy,
(it always does, regardless of my past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even so, the effort's just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so, as I arrive
I sidle in, avoiding every gaze,
and furtive, ducking through the crowd, I strive
to vanish lamely in the social maze.
I've never proved that I have what it takes;
I never can remember things I said.
I  leave about the time my spirit breaks;
I always end up wishing I were dead.
(Apparently I'm in a creative frenzy right now....the critiques so far really clicked.)
Original
The world's too close, and never safe, or plain.
I want to tell you what it's like out there --
beyond my door--- it's chaos and old pain.
Suppose I want to drive; I hunch and bear
the shrieking metal door of my garage,
then tense as nylon webbing scrapes my neck.
I breathe in deep, but nothing can assuage
the itch; already I'm a twitching wreck.
I note each floor-strewn leaf and piece of trash,
and still I haven't put the car in gear,
distracted by a rattle in the dash;
a squeak somewhere that I can barely hear.
In rapid train I catalogue the smells:
exhaust; the dog; a spilled essential oil;
damp wool; deodorant. My nose rebels
against the random mix, and I recoil.
The water spots displayed on side-view glass
make ornamental patterns on the scene
as I back out the drive. Before I pass,
a dozen things insist on being seen:
a crushed McDonald's cup; a ziploc bag;
a plastic GI Joe; a toddler's sock;
a trail of antifreeze; a greasy rag;
the lug nut from a wheel; a broken lock.
Before I've gone a mile, a hundred more:
(not only what I see, but what I hear)
the roar of inbound jets that shake my core,
the blasting hiss of brakes beside my ear.
I'm just ten minutes on the way – time flies
as dread accumulates a tidal wave
built of impending hands and mouths and eyes
of people I don't know. I must be brave.
My confidence convinces even me,
(at least it's done so in the recent past)
and so I carry on, intrepidly –
but even though I try, I'm just half-assed.
My heart's not in it, so when I arrive
I sidle in the door, avoiding every eye
and weaving through the crowd. Furtive, I strive
to put my back against the wall and spy
out my escape. I never can remember things I said:
each time, before the end, I find I'm wishing I were dead.