i make a poor carpenter as wood rots beneath pestilent digits unfit for labor

i make a poor architect as burning bridges comes second nature

a poor sculptor unable to bring the clay to life like a greek god in mythology

no sense of color so paints are just so many jars of incompetence with blank canvas

so many faults like the ring of fire that circles the globe leaving threats of violence

instead spitting words at the aether in an effort to make the feelings live

doubting every syllabic expression with a fierce determination to sabotage

what is a fool to do in a world that makes less sense every day to a clouded mind

just huddle in a ball wishing to create but only knowing how tear apart