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.