Misunderstood

This poem is about my son and his daily battles.

A fair haired boy with big brown eyes
His mind sharp as a whip
But a rage burns deep inside of him
On his shoulder he has a chip

This little boy only twelve years old
Has been fighting for many years
A disorder we all try to know
That brings forth many fears

Cursing, shouting, blinking eyes
Shaking of your head
Spitting, grunting, smelling things
These actions you truly dread

All these things he can't control
Due to short circuits in his head
The only time he is at peace
Is when he goes to bed

He always seems so angry
I ask him to tell me why
He says he can't explain it
Then all he does is cry

Tourettes is his disorder
His actions, they're called tics
And even with his medicine
This problem can't be fixed