The traits of a left handed maid

Left isn't right.
But right feels wrong.
And yet my hand always runs through the words.
Ink smeared up my sleeve,
As it covers and bleeds,
On my effort;  
And I was lead to then believe,
I was different,
Dare say special,  
I was unique,
And I guess that seemed to mean something to me.  
I can trace it, you know,  
Through my family tree,
And they say I think quicker,
Though not something I see,
Frustrated and scare much more easily,
A temper simmers on surface,
And explodes constantly,
In fact I can see many commonalities,  
That run through the one's
That sway left the same as me.
And that feeling of special,  
I guess, began to pass,
Individuality seeming no more than just a farce.
What a laugh.  
Could be bizarre but I'm not gifted.
I'm no Albert Einstein, no Napoleon or Joan of Arc,
Though they share the hand of mine,
Just design.  
Nothing more or less there to define,
An uncommon trait of 10%  
That effects chunks of my life.
I'll drink you under the table,
Mentally a bit unstable,
Insomnia has made the notion of sleep appear a far fetched fable.
And apparently I might seem,
To have an outsiders mentality,
But I do try,  
To disregard and deny,
The notion and idea that I'll probably die,
Before I'm meant to.  
That my life is based,
on my hand and less to do with my fate.  
As if I cannot change  
How I'm set in a certain way,
Behaviours leaning to the left,
And running straight into my brain.  
A predisposition,  
I less favour fact over fiction,
And yet the bubble I've built
Lacks a certain optimism.
It's a given,
When we are small we will put pen to paper,
I just never considered  
The moulding and shaping
It would have on me that bit later.