Ashamed of the mouth,
That appendage who never obeys my will
Or rather destroys my will.
Draw the lips apart
Determined to tell a story
But the oxygen kills my plan
And renders the tongue an unwieldly lump.
Controlling articulation takes all my effort
And thus words are forgotten.
Perhaps I have an accent
Or at least some think so,
But in reality I simply struggle with speech.
Orally, I am an imbecile,
Unable to articulate my thoughts
In any coherent manner.
Proud of my fingers,
Those digits who possess the talents
To draw, to sculpt, to write,
To create and express what my mouth will not.
When the words exit my body through my hands,
They flow unhindered
And my mouth is helpless to sabotage their quest.