Slow pitches

It seems that God hasn't understood
when I tell him that I am retarded,
that I am a very small creature
with a small brain and a twisted heart,
that I need constant supervision
and very clear instructions,
that I should by no means
be let out after dark.
I need to hold a hand
crossing any street,
and he might need to just carry me.
I've told him that I need
slow pitches, or let's play a different game:
T-ball. I lose focus as the pitch comes,
and swing at air.
Left to my own devices
I will accomplish exactly nothing,
and with a thousand conflicting plans
I'll split myself in a thousand parts.
I hope he has very good glue.
My Creator doesn't seem aware
of the mess he's made.
He tells me he'll take my comments
under advisement.