Creation

I am not an artist,
With a grand vision
And fine motor skills.
When I touch pen or brush,
To paper or canvas,
My straight lines are crooked
And my circles are squashed.
Usually I fumble with words
That jitter across the page.
Perhaps clay would be better.
I can sense the dank,
Cool earth against my skin.
I’d carefully craft,
A craggy, imperfect face.
Life lines are never straight.
I desire this touch,
Not words or images.
Instead of a caress,
I’d gouge deeply,
Feelings furrowed
Through my creation.