My fingers flick and twitch eclectic
kept in motion with dyslexic
thoughts and ramblings running frantic.
Searching for that right connection
bridging art and craft’s dynamic.
I need a voice for words hermetic
not just grunt sound expletives
that twist communication inward,
threatening neural net short circuit.
Sleep is lost, boiled dry in rage:
at failure evident on page,
of my ineptitude to write
a single line of elegance,
to please the ear and mark the soul
of those that read my crayon’d scrawl.