Kid...
you could be the greatest artist.
The most literate poet.
The nicest guy.
The best friend.
The pinnacle of fineness.
The best dressed.
The funniest one in the room.
Look photoshopped as you roll out of bed in the morning.
None of that matters to them.
To them, you are lesser.
You are various sets of mobility aids.
You are a punchline.
Ammo for their cheap shots.
All we can hope is that soon you will meet people who don't have to fake smiles around you.
Disregard the sign on the toilet door.
Look past the wheels and the scars.
Those people are out there somewhere.
You are capable of making people happy.
I know you're angry.
I know you just want someone to talk to that understands.
Someone you can't scare.
Pop another Prozac and go to bed mate.
Because the new bruises you're added to yourself are about as useful as that angry Instagram story.
I'm sorry I cannot be more.
I'm sorry I cannot be 'normal'.
I'm sorry I cannot be able-bodied.
I'm sorry that you feel the need to simplify me.
I'm sorry you feel you need to discount me.
-XR
YOU ARE READING
Moments of gladness, moments of sadness & everything in-between.
PoesíaI'm an 18 year old boy with Cerebral Palsy, depression and anxiety. I'm a British Hipster Punk Fuck who has dreams of happiness and independence. Living with my difficulties can be saddening and difficult so to cope I draw (follow my Instagram: ale...
