Tourette Syndrome

In a world,

Where muscles,

Dance to their own rhythm.

And words spill,

Like uninvited guests at a party,

I exist.

Not broken.

Just differently tuned.

In the orchestra of humanity,

Where every movement,

And every sound,

Is a note,

In the symphony of being. 

They tell me I'm disruptive. 

An inconvenience,

In the smoothly oiled gears of society,

But it's the narrow doorways, 

The stairs without ramps, 

The stares,

The whispers,

That tie weights to my wings.

Disability, 

Is not the twitch,

Nor the unexpected shout. 

It's the walls built,

By minds unwilling to adapt,

To anything,

That deviates from their script.

Let's paint a world,

With broader strokes,

Where differences,

Are not just tolerated,

But celebrated.

Where the environment,

Does not disable,

But enables,

Everyone,

To flourish,

For in the garden of humanity,

It's the variety,

The unique colors, shapes, and sizes, 

That make the landscape so breathtaking.

So why trim the roses,

To look like the daisies? 

We are all,

Beautifully different,

Intricately connected,

In the web of life. 

So let us,

Dance,

Shout,

Whisper,

And be,

In all the ways, 

We were meant to.

Because in the end,

It's not about fitting in,

But creating a space,

Where all can belong.

- Aspen Greenwood