A note of disgrace

Disgrace be to God for every fiber of my body is sewn wrong.
Every cell of mine, every tissue is sewn wrong. God!
They say you sew us carefully in our mothers' wombs? 
In the depths of the earth, did you sew me with hate? 
Did you see me with rage? 

Disgrace be to the geneticist for the long time to refer me. Disgrace to those who spawned my clumsiness, my fogginess, my craziness at trying to manage this condition. This strange corporeal imposition! 

But since my life is short, and my veins are loose. So loosed will my heart be:  to love so deeply;  to love ever so freely. If my time is short, and my body distorted; I will live my youth like a hedonist seeking stimulation that those who seek security and achievement will never grasp. 
For I am grasping at life. 
Disgrace to my body which could not support the music of my soul because my hands are like those women old:  tethered and taught. 

Disgrace to my lungs who turn to a whisper when I wish to scream or to sing. 
A note of disgrace a note of unthanks.
Disgrace to those who neglected my pain. 
To those caretakers who did not its name. 

And yet still more let there be grace to God. For the body that taught me to love deeper. Feeling the hurt of others within me. Feeling much keener. Grace be to God for the love in my life. For this spirit of spite. Grace be to God for the pain that taught me to care, and to heal and forced me to sing louder and forced me not to rely on my joints but rather my spirit on wings. Grace be to those who loved and who cared for this body so old that falls often downstairs. 
Grace and Disgrace onto this body of mine. For I know, all to well, just how precious is time.