i sketch my
every ounce of love
but these childlike
pictures never
capture the truth

there is a missing
connection between
my intent and
my lack of ability

of a love distorted
by the static humming
in misworded thoughts
every day is filled
with eraser shavings
and graphite stained
shaking hands

gnarled fingers grip
too tightly to the
bite marked pencil
choosing instead to
pluck a fresh
ebony feather from my
malformed wings
and try and try again