"wheelchair" poems
Basketball is not a sport
All they ever do is run around the court
The players use an orange bouncy ball
By the way, they're 11 feet tall
And the net is only 10 feet high
"How we gonna score, maybe bend our thigh?"
Saying basketball's a sport is like sportifying 4 square
What sports can you play while you're in a wheelchair?
Basketball's just an activity
So just dunk the ball for infinity
Don't be stupid, be a smarty
Don't go to a basketball party
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 10:08 AM UTC
Let's hold out hope for the crippled.
Hope for the crippled?
No thanks, this crip doesn't need your hope.
This crip needs you to stop.
Stop labeling me.
Stop feeling sorry for me.
Stop pitying me and my 'poor life'
Just ******* stop!
No, really, I'm okay. I don't need you.
I don't need you or your miracles.
Don't tell me God works miracles
And to hold out hope
Because maybe one day I'll walk
Or maybe I'll get to see from both eyes
Because God works miracles
But you're too busy fixing what isn't broken that you forget
If I was truly made in his image this crip doesn't need healed.
This crip doesn't need your prayers or miracles.
This crip doesn't need your God or your salvation.
This crip doesn't need your hope.
Poor soul, she's diminished by her disability.
Diminished by my disability?
The only thing I'm diminished by
Is your inability to understand
That before anything else I am human.
I make mistakes and have flaws.
I feel, probably more than most,
And sometimes those feelings get in the way.
I empathize but I am done sympathizing.
You say my wheelchair is a blessing in disguise.
Why can't it just be a blessing?
A blessing that comes with lots of lessons.
Some that I learn the hard way and some that come easy.
But this wheelchair doesn't need a reason
To teach me (or you) a lesson.
Sure, it frustrates me when a wheel breaks or I fall on a broken sidewalk
But it teaches me humility and patience.
And there's no reason to disguise that this wheelchair is a blessing.
So, please take your hope and pity
Your guilt and salvation elsewhere
Because they're defeating the purpose. They're detracting from the point.
I am not diminished by my disability.
I am not to be quieted or pitied
I am not your reason to feel guilty
I am not a burden
I am human.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
Doctor Larch peers out the window,
Pulling aside brocaded curtains to hide
The grief that he will not show,
The rending emptiness he feels inside.
As his son Homer rides past the sunset,
Not knowing where he goes
But aspiring to see the wide world,
The ocean at Mount Desert,
Seeing wonder in the expanse
And worlds inside a circle of glass.
He has taken with him his heart,
A dark picture of frailty.
He finds unexpected work in an orchard,
Leisurely harvesting round, garnet jewels.
The nomads, dark and wary,
Ask him to read about death and stars.
There are rules for the workers.
And Homer finds that they apply
To no one, neither nomads or
Curious young men.
He sees in the errant father
The reflection of his own,
The man who made him good.
“You are my work of art”
He wrote.
Like an artist with his painting,
Who resists giving it away,
So Doctor Larch holds on to him
Hoping his adolescence ends
And he returns.
Finding peace at the last.
The lack of rules bring about a sea change,
Allowing forbidden love and pain.
He ventures out once more into the vacuum
Of conscience set free,
He devises his own rules about the womb
And how to help those in agony
But eventually…
With all the rules now open,
There is nothing left for him to do.
So he boards the migrant truck
Just as the pilot returns, broken.
He watches the struggle with a wheelchair
Sees his lover watch him with her yellow hair
Knows her future, years of sacrifice.
And he admits at last
That he has a purpose,
The train to St. Cloud huffs slowly away,
With Homer standing in the wet snow.
There is the old asylum,
The orphanage and home on the hill,
Almost black, with the sunset behind,
Homer begins the long climb.
He approaches slowly.
But then, a burst of laughter
And children from the door
Flock around him, dancing, shrieking,
Some holding him like an errant dog,
Who must be told to stay.
“Will you stay?” they ask.
“I think so,” he smiles in irony.
He is home at the last.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
If you ever fall in love with someone who is in a wheelchair remember this:
I am in love with you and the chair is not you;
Loving someone in a wheelchair is not about the chair at all.
It is about changing their perspective, from always looking down and straight ahead, to around and up.
Holding their hand when they think they are not normal
Take them to the movies
dinner
Travel and go places
Laugh
Talk
Cry
And when the two of you fight, don't treat him/her as a fragile piece of glass.
Say what is on your mind
And mean it.
Apologize afterwards regardless.
I have been struck; falling in love with him.
He is always there for me and we are the best of friends.
He doesn't know that I love him
Even though I tell him as often as I can that he is my hero.
He has always stood up for me--
He is my superhero
The pain he feels every moment makes me want to trade places with him so he can walk
Dance at his wedding
Even if it is not with me
To actually stand up to hug his family
To be more active
(Let's go out)
Happy
(I'm alive)
But he makes sacrifices because of his body
If I could take away your pain
I'd trade your sorrows for a day
That you can walk in joy and life
A single day without your strife
And if I could trade longer, I would
So that you can live
A life with two legs and arms
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
The line didn't move, though there were not
many people in it. In a half-hearted light
the lone agent dealt patiently, noiselessly, endlessly
with a large dazed family ranging
from twin toddlers in strollers to an old lady
in a bent wheelchair. Their baggage
was all in cardboard boxes. The plane was delayed,
the rumor went through the line. We shrugged,
in our hopeless overcoats. Aviation
had never seemed a very natural idea.
Bored children floated with faces drained of blood.
The girls in the tax-free shops stood frozen
amid promises of a beautiful life abroad.
Louis Armstrong sang in some upper corner,
a trickle of ignored joy.
Outside, in an unintelligible darkness
that stretched to include the rubies of strip malls,
winged behemoths prowled looking for the gates
where they could bury their koala-bear noses
and **** our dimming dynamos dry.
Boys in floppy sweatshirts and backward hats
slapped their feet ostentatiously
while security attendants giggled
and the voice of a misplaced angel melodiously
parroted FAA regulations. Women in saris
and kimonos dragged, as their penance, behind them
toddlers clutching Occidental teddy bears,
and chair legs screeched in the food court
while ill-paid wraiths mopped circles of night
into the motionless floor.
10.3k
the hardest thing i do as a disabled person
is not
"fight my disability"
we were never at war with one another
like me, it just wants to exist
and so i let it
to some extent
i’ll never “become my disability”
yet i don’t believe it’s a bad thing either
i’ve come to realise that he’s become a part of me
as he’s helped shape my thinking
and maybe even my personality a little bit
i owe all my stubbornness to him
nah
i don’t fight my disability
we’re bffs
the hardest thing i do as a disabled person
is not
"get up every day"
though for a while, i thought it was
getting up is easy
facing the world?
getting easier
i used to blush at the thought of getting a wheelchair
i’d bury my face in my knees and cover my ears with my hands, thinking that if i couldn’t see it or hear it, i wouldn’t need it
i cared too much of what society would see me as
not “normal teenage girl”
"sad confined possibly a teenage girl?"
normal is overrated
and to be honest?
so is society
the hardest thing i do as a disabled person
is not
pretending i’m okay with mainstreaming
dear teachers, “mainstreaming” was never in my vocabulary
pretending?
pfft dear teachers, this is 100% real contentment
IEPs got some getting used to but after 16 years of endless doctors appointments, people in white sterile coats, plastic latex gloves poking, prodding demanding things of me
"mainstreaming"
won’t ever exist in my vocabulary
i know i’m smart
and i know i can do it
so don’t you DARE cry at my graduation
it’d be pretty pathetic if i believed in myself more than you do
the hardest thing i do as a disabled person
is
accepting the realities
i don’t know when i’ll take my last step
i don’t know when my muscles will give out for good
i know that every day i won’t know what’s right in front of me
i know that i’ll never be able to run another mile in my life
and i know that i won’t ever stop dreaming about the things i wish i could do
would love to do
won’t ever do
might do
one day
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 10:50 PM UTC
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
you sowed this **** into my brain...
why do you even "think"
that i want... you?
i, want your children...
the meme-mutation is what i'm
after...
and there are plenty of useful idiots
to allow me to process
the intermediating processes
for: the sigma, "accomplishment";
which is unlike
what infected mushroom's -
trance party track sounds like,
outside of my own head.
why do these people even
think i'm after their genes
of memes?
i want, their infantile
replicas...
i want to craft a
worthwhile curiosity,
on a canvas, that that they call
their gene replicas, children,
and... like why called me...
easy meat..
einfachfleisch...
what?
i'm not here for these news' anchors...
i'm here for their children...
nibble nibble nibble chew chow
cow tow and main...
prawn crackers...
ah... news anchors are
easy targets...
slightly pointless
20x bulls eye honing devices...
it's their children...
i want their children...
i want their cognition
to become replica of wheelchair
bound infirmaries;
why?
oh... you know...
football and wrestling,
given the Qatar investment plan...
the whole sport "thing"
became a tad bit boring...
had to resort to secondary sources
of entertainment;
children of news anchors?
the secondary, "last",
albeit, the best resort;
schindler...
required a list,
to become reincarnated...
and revive a **** a heartlessness
of an reincarnation
anomaly:
i.e.: what, a limited number
of people, to begin with?!
so the rest is primitive "a.i."?
now i'm starting to think...
thank the blue indians
for their culinary innovations...
but when it comes
to their theology?
**** 'em;
did i advocate that?
if i did... within what pronoun
guarantee of advocacy?
playing the grammar card...
which pronoun?
the plural singular,
or the singular plural,
or the gender neutral?
thank you jean-paul sartre,
for the... "i"...
i simply love, this revised concept
of a unit...
the revision clinging
to the royalist affirmation of pronouns...
i.e. 1 would say... so...
and 1... would, so, will, do so.
**** the pronoun debate
in Canadian politics...
if i have to resort to this?
then i will...
like your plain citizen...
may "i" speak within
the confines, of the royal, one,
given the example:
one might suppose...
to be the former, and the current,
highest, etiquette?
gender neutrality of pronouns...
last time i checked...
one was never allowed
pronoun stature...
why not address this
conundrum, to begin with?!
oh, right... too late...
too many loud mouths
without a guillotine...
so, basically, a cow fart's
worth of argumentation.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
claude: battles tabletop.
reaches for maple syrup, into breakfast,
& breaks down puking.
the girlfriend/abortion situation.
the cash
& cream corn.
smells of deeper spring.
grandma & her bible.
to pray.
to eat lunch.
to television &
honey blunt the relief of a sunday night.
lily: into decay.
into dark days of her america.
detox: she breathes on vapor. sweet leaf.
sweats the heat & dead-dreams off. off on wavelengths &
resonance::: sound therapeutics,
at 528.111 hz,
enhanced dream frequency. she falls
into bliss. into
unopened codons & the rigor
of vibrational analog.
love cassette.
achilles: wheelchair-bound & boning
still. gripping ***
the girl & couch.
the couch & modern warfare.
old warfare: harvest of limbs.
he crawls across the lawn to pick strawberries.
thumbs the dirt for entrance
to another world. smokes a jar
of roaches, as monument
to his second generation revival.
cool.
wallace: & the zebra jeep.
red rock monkeywrenched billboards & the ****** of flame upon milk factory.
chemical factory.
fertilizer bomb///return/
to town & grotto.
porch-light wood & breath of bong-rotation.
the babylon journeyman,
embroiled in plots against the order.
to simply disappear.
to portal away.
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 7:29 PM UTC
I like fishing, but dislike boats.
I'm sick of washing, but still wear clothes.
My brother-in-law hates the way I live my life.
My sister keeps the peace, the good little wife.
Mum, I haven't spoken to for many, many, weeks.
Another life, another town, it's solitude she seeks.
My common-law husband is wheelchair bound,
You can't jump puddles with legs that are round.
We own some land, the bank owns the house,
If we miss a payment, they kick us out.
You can't pitch a tent on the corner of the block,
Reading the small print--they own the lot...
Sailing and laundry, painful relations,
Mid-life crisis and petty celebrations.
Watching a loved one severe his spine,
Angry with friends, 'cause they're walking fine.
Another rejection or funds cancellation,
Penning a poem to vent my frustration.
Seeing the darkness in plain black and white,
A smile on my lips--This is my life...
Apr 7, 2010
Apr 7, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
MS
Multiple Scleriosis
Aka Miserable Self
"Listen to your body"
Says MS nurse
Your mind keeps going
Burning sensations intermittent
Stabing and shooting in arms and legs
Crawling in your head
Numbness in your ***
Forget fullness
Wobbling stumberling
Fear
Pregablin *****
Dampening your fuesed nerves
Limping dragging
"rest"
Says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
Days are half days
Taken up by sleep
Fear
Weakness
Dropping
Numbness
"pace yourself "
says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
job half done
Delegate
Let go
"Use your alternative technology "
Says MS nurse
Mind keeps going
Stick
Mixer
Steamer
Robotic vacuum cleaner
Hose
Wheelchair
Automatic car
It's challenging Managing Self
Be kinder to yourself
Kindness rules
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
Is it sad that sometimes,
I want to be terribly injured
to see if people care?
Thinking while talking with
friends on a balcony,
wondering if I get pushed off
accidentally, what would they
feel?
Think?
Would there be fear in their eyes?
Would they run down the stairs
to see if I was alive?
Would they panic and wonder
what the world is going to be like without me?
Or would they feel... nothing?
Would they not even care?
If I survived the fall and came back
to them in a wheelchair,
would they help me with my things?
Would they stand by my side
and help me navigate the crowds?
Would they feel guilty and
concerned?
Would they worry?
Or would they watch me
alone.
Struggling to get past people
and desperately trying to hold
onto my belongings.
And walk away.
Would they hide?
Would they scorn?
Would they care?
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:47 PM UTC
The progression of Huntington's disease often leads to the need of a wheelchair. My husband resisted using a wheelchair for many years, even though his poor balance and tiredness meant he was prone to falls. I didn't exactly pressurise him into using one. To be honest it was not just because it was another sign of loss of independence, but it would have been harder for me too in many respects.
What I wasn't prepared for, when the time came, was the social stigma attached to wheelchair users insofar as becoming a kind of non-entity! In a weekly blog I wrote in 2008 I wrote about the first time I took my husband out in a wheelchair. It angered me how peoples’ attitudes seemed to change overnight.
Walking down the High Street,
Hand in hand like lovers,
The couple blend into the crowd,
No different from the others.
As the years go by though,
His body having changed,
Has sadly meant a wheelchair,
Has had to be arranged.
Strolling down same High Street,
The woman now behind,
Her lover needing pushing,
Steep pavements so unkind.
Entering the bar now,
With awkward navigation;
People jump to open door,
Aware of situation.
“Thank you” says the man in chair,
When wheeled into the place;
“Welcome” say the helpers there,
But all avoid his face.
Carer gets the “Welcome” mouthed,
No looks with him they share;
Let’s treat this fellow human being,
As if he wasn't there.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:39 AM UTC
I long to fly
Into the sky
But broken wings
Disable me.
I long to play
But here I stay
Wheelchair bound
Still on the ground.
Look in my eyes,
These grey blue skies,
You’re soon to see
Past broken wings.
My body’s bound
But my soul roams round
The sky of my mind
Where you will find
Imagination abounds
My soul roams round
No chains for me
For here I’m free.
So, though I’m o'erlooked
And my wings are all crook’d,
There’s more to me,
I’ve a soul with wings
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 4:18 PM UTC
underling animals
in times
of quake-
slight
swellings
in brain
of maybe
one mole
bottled
now
for sea-
if on a baby
your hands
would be
so cute
but as
an adult
you glove them-
world as wheelchair
the wheelchair
from which
god rose-
as sporadic
surges
switch on
the sink’s
disposal
pull thorns
from the rabbits
you dream
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
As I rushed home, I thought about
The last thing that I'd read
"Can we go out to fly my kite?
Before I go to bed."
A text was sent by my young son
To go and fly his kite
I texted back "no problem son,"
"We'll go do that tonight"
Once I got home, I went to change
And he changed his clothes too
The sun was still up shining
And the kite would help the view
The wind was blowing briskly
Just enough to fly it right
And if others were out flying too
It would really be a sight
I told my son, to dress up warm
For the wind did hold a chill
But, flying kites with my young boy
Well, it gave my heart a thrill
He gathered up his kite
And then he raced me to the door
I picked up my hat that had
Been knocked upon the floor
He raced me up the street as we
made our way out to the park
He wanted to be first
to get there before it did get dark
He held his kite so tightly,
I myself thought it would break
It was a black and golden box kite
With a tail just like a snake
We bought it up in Chinatown
At a little antique shop
When the wind hit it just perfect
It would just hover and then stop
Of all the kites he owned
This was his favorite one
I think it was his favorite
Because it danced beneath the sun.
We got there, I let out the string
And I got it in the air
And once it became airborne
I tied it to his chair
My son, can't hold the kite string
Can't control the way it flies
He's confined to his blue wheelchair
Until the day he dies
He controls it with his finger
Races all around the place
And when we get out flying kites
There's such a smile on his face
He backs it up, the kite responds
Flying high up in the sky
"i wish that I could be that free"
"I wish that I could fly"
"One day son, you will be free"
"You'll be as mobile as that kite
You'll be moving like you used to do
"On your feet, you'll be so light"
He was injured in an accident
But, that's not here nor there,
He was hit by a drunk driver
He was too **** drunk to care
But for now, my boy is smiling
We're out flying kites at night
And as long as we're toghether
Then our world is still all right.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
The first person I ever saw pass on
Was my great grandmother,
The wonderful woman who had 11 kids in total,
Second in line would be my grandmother,
Another special woman in my life.
I only remember my great grandmother
In her little wheelchair I loved to push around,
Or her four-pointed walking stick which I used as
Monkey bars and swung around,
Or the times we had to carry her into the toilet because
She couldn't help herself.
A few years later,
She moved out and I cried.
The strange thing was
I never cried during her funeral,
I didn't even weep when she took her last breath
With her eyes wide open on the hospital bed.
Everyone else was crying like mad,
And honestly in that moment,
I just felt weird.
Like a heartless creature who felt nothing.
People stared at me with their hateful tear-filled eyes.
I didn't like that. Not at all.
Maybe that's why,
Up to date,
I'm still trying to fix that.
Hoping for a chance to maybe feel grief again.
And this time I'd cry like crazy.
Mostly because now I am crazy.
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
Here I am, leg in plaster
Nurse with a needle, after me
Forgot the brake, can't go faster
Now all I get is woe and misery
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
Rushing to get that elevator again
Going quick and my hands are sore
I'm just too slow, because then
I end up crashing into the closed door
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
Showing off and think I'm clever
Should have taken my painkiller pill
You won't stop and wish I never
My fault for trying to go down hill
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
At last I can get out of the chair
But things will never be the same
Because now it just ain't fair
They've given me a Zimmer Frame
CHORUS
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
I got those wheelchair blues
Suffering those wheelchair blues
Hear my wheelchair blues
I'm singing those wheelchair blues
copyright Chris Smith
Nov 8, 2009
Nov 8, 2009 at 12:16 AM UTC
eat breakfast with your gold spoon
sit in the front seat of your Porsche
arrive at school with your Louis Vuitton bag
make fun of the kid in a wheelchair during break
eat cold lunch and call the lunch lady fat
laugh at the girl with acne on her face
threaten the teacher when she sends you out of class
get picked up in your Porsche
flick off the kid walking home
have friends over and destroy the house
tell your maid to clean it up
eat dinner with your gold fork
admire your sports awards while you brush your teeth
lay in bed and hate yourself
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
a penny is a penny
and i am a monk hawking birth control pills
without any shame or pride
disguised in flamboyant tinfoil.
i am an extra sensitive *** on my daily street corner
turning into a crumb of hunger
staring down a long alleyway and eating the flowers
that grew up in concrete.
there are shadows of jugglers on the wall
jumping into the sun, and i am a burning lampshade.
henry miller is in a wheelchair now
and i am a walrus with a backache
being forced among the proverb writers,
but i'm no prophet because i've seen the bubbling fire
and the swords on the doorway.
i am a lover with a guilty conscience
and i have too much on my mind.
i stole the bread from the riot squad and
i blow out these words from a keyhole,
pounding my fist on a book
while the mystics get drunk with skinny ******
i don't go to birthday parties or funerals
instead i'd like to do something worthwhile
but i am your typical flunky, writing eccentric jokes about rich pimps
while my father lies dead on the hill.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:59 AM UTC
She fell and broke her hip
Though that’s not what killed her
No, she fought long and hard to keep her sanity
A matriarch, the last matriarch
She never stood a chance
Through bouts of forgetfulness
She cringed as she sat
Wheelchair bound
Rolling with a fool’s smile
Talking nonsense like Nero must have
Playing his fiddle
Our family burned up but she never knew
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
The lonely old man wrinkled he's aged,
he's gone into care he feels like he's caged.
Weak he's fragile but his mind is in tact,
the way life is it's a matter of fact.
The lonely old man he's missing his wife,
waiting to die looking back o his life
Looking through photographs a distant memory it seems,
frightened by death it's plaguing his dreams.
The lonely old man it seems nobody cares,
in his bedroom he sits there and stares.
One day a young lady comes to help him get ready,
on his feet he's not stable he's become unsteady.
The lonely old man he's feeling a tired old chap,
the lady dresses him smartly finishing with his cap.
Out in the gardens she takes him for a walk,
from his wheelchair he laughs as they talk.
The lonely old man and the lady they bond,
watching the fish as they swim in the pond.
Days go by the man weakens he's worse,
the lady stays with him that's her promise as a nurse.
The lonely old man ready to leave his life,
he starts seeing the face of his beautiful wife.
Holding his hand she knows he is dying,
trying to be professional she can't stop herself crying.
The lonely old man turns to the lady,
his face has darkened his eyes grey and shady.
Slipping away his breathing is slow
knowing it's time for him he must go.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
I was three years out of high school and finally getting
the chance to grow up. I’d been ready since before
graduation day. Everybody in the world was certain
that I would fail. I couldn’t succeed. Thanks for the vote
of confidence. I am proving them wrong. I’m succeeding,
maybe not thriving, but succeeding right before their very eyes.
Success is living on my own. Being able to do every household
chore on my own. Success is getting myself to and from where
I need to be in my broken down, beat up wheelchair. Success
is budgeting my money each month. Success is not getting killed
and ***** on my walk home from work in the dark. Success is
living up to their standards and way of life. Success is faking a smile.
I’ve learned more about life in the last eight months than ever before.
I’ve made mistakes, just like they said I would. What they didn’t count
on was me learning from those mistakes and picking up the pieces.
They told me I wouldn’t last more than a month, six weeks at the most.
I would ***** up, fail miserably, get hurt and hospitalized. Thank you
for the boost of self-esteem. It’s made me tougher than steel.
I may not be the perfect student, skinny blonde ***** award winning
page designer or most eloquent writer. I may not speak Spanish fluently,
have loads of extra cash lying around or a motorized, state of the art
wheelchair. Stop telling me what I need. I don’t need or want any of them.
Success is living how I want to live. Success is a productive day when I want
nothing but hot tea and soft music. Success is having the confidence to ask
for help when I’ve been told I shouldn’t. Success is making friends who can
read through my masquerade. Success is facing the consequences. Success is
found through red ink marks and piles of papers. Success is not letting those
who don’t believe in me get the best of me. Success is sunshine on a cloudy day
Aug 9, 2010
Aug 9, 2010 at 9:29 PM UTC
Yes I have a disability.
Does it define me?
No!
Yes I'm in a wheelchair .
But I don't care.
So why do you?
Because I do things differently,
Apparently that means I can't function in society?
They say that my disability affects my ability.
All my life people have told me that seeing is believing.
But when it comes to me.
Looks can be deceiving.
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
baby blue stroller
fire engine red wagon
chrome oxide green bike
yellow convertible
azurite blue van
sorrel colored wheelchair
bronze casket
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC