The Handicapped Paradox


Your eyese gloss over as you once more see my hand slicing through the air,

You know I know the answer, yet you never let me speak.

If I could speak, here Is what I would say:

I am sick of your paper words, that fall around me, landing on deaf ears.

I am sick of your condesending sing-soning tone with which you use to speak toime, like I am a bottle fed infant that needs care.

I am sick of your arrogance that grates againsts my nerves everyime you speak, like nails slowly running across a chalk board.

I am sick of the way your eyes glisten over with false sympathy every time I have to get up from my desk, that little sneer that appears at the corner of your mouth every time that screams to the enitre room "I think this person is an idiot should shut up now."

I sit and smile a glassy smile, as you try and rip me to shreads with your needle words, as I think to myself:

You are nothing.


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