So often he'd go to bed
with ink on his hands;
hands that were always trembling
in fear of the monstrosities
they'd pressed onto innocent paper.

He wondered
why people deemed his creations
beautiful,
when all he could do
was twist and bend and morph his words
into shivers down their spines,
and haunting echoes in their minds.

His way with them was anything
but beautiful.

Staring at his stained hands,
he, too, wondered,
why he was made
such a skilled wielder
of the deadliest weapons.