Who's limited?
Once again I get a poem,
About some miserable person,
Whining about his life,
And he meets a bunch of "poor disabled people..."
- people who have 'less' than he does.
- people who can't have the life he has.
- people who make him feel fortunate, better off,
And the poem ends with him
Wrapped up in his thankfulness for what he has that I "don't."
True, I cannot see the sun rise,
I cannot see the stars at night,
But my life is not pathetic...
- it's not pitiful.
- it's not limited.
Well, not in the way many perceive it.
I live a full life.
I work, I dream,
I live, I feel.
I go about my day much as you,
productive and free.
Most of my limitations,
come from you,
your inability to stop and really think.
You get hung up on what I do,
and leave me trapped here,
hurting, aching,
Trying to break free.
I'm tired of dreaming for you.
I'm tired of coming up with all the answers.
I'm tired of having my wings clipped,
Trapped by your lack of ideas,
About what my life is and can be like.
Now, I curse my life,
I curse the freedom I was taught as a child,
I wish I was as limited as you think I am.
I wish I could forget
because it's just too much to take
living with these constant contradictions
between the life I know I have
and the life I cannot have.
Instead of pitying me,
and feeling so good about what you "have,"
why don't you stop, and think, and dream
and set me free?
A woman is worried about an older woman, a widow, who lives in the apartment next door. She hasn't heard anything from her for a few days.
Errors have been made; others will be blamed.
A job at the nursery can lead to a budding career.
