The sad truth is that I am disabled, the truth is that I have Tourettes. The truth is that when I am in the car with you I see you starting my body just starts moving, moving towards its target. I know your stareing after my body causes me to hit the door with my head and I can feel the blood drain from my nose and I am so much pain and yet you stare. I understand that I different yet the truth is I have noticed when I started smocking I got less stares. The truth is it was more socially acceptable to be a smoker than it was to be disabled. The truth is I do not know why I can smoke and kill my lungs, but I can live my life the way god had wanted.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice. Yes the society accepts a smoker but not a god made differently abled.