where my mouth stumbles,
shouts,
my spiking spidered handwriting never fails.
(and thus it never fails;
words from my mouth
are always too much for me.)
the fingers that cut a rug
with words I can't pronounce or say
are the same that twist,
useless in my lap,
when you're around.
skittering tools of hate
unprolific things
they itch with what I can't convey