Cuticles burn and nails curve
Scratching silent yearnings into wood
I yearn, ceaselessly
Splinters bite and rage
But do not fill me with doubt
Stippled marks made by callous fingertips
I yearn for something less than subtle
Less than ideal and far more shapely
Hands cramp as branches crack
Unwavering, I'm asking
Will you yield and come to grips
With becoming my creation?