I miss what I never had.
Gentle reassurance and soft, loving encouragement.
Gentleness was not written in my mother’s movements
like a ballet dancer’s practiced pirouettes.
Her movements were more like my handwriting.
Jagged and coarse. Discordant and unrythmic.
I wonder though, were her movements intentional?
Were they truly meant to hurt and scare?
Or were they an absentminded reflection
of her own hurt and scars?

My handwriting is poor,
but the words I have to say
are rich with meaning and care.

My handwriting
                                      is like a portmanteau of my parents'

I think it fits,

but sometimes

                                            I wish it was different.

I guess that's just the way things are.
But I can change.

My handwriting looks
like a mix of
my Mum and Dad's.

              I feel like it fits.

But sometimes

    I wish it was different.

I guess that's how it is with a lot of things

the art of smooth handwriting eludes me &
i scribble silent letters
distracted by
boldly loud ones
onto the lines of a page,
emotions and confessions i will
turn in for class, my heart
out, &
where the teacher will
ultimately return it,
confusion marked
on the pages in red ink
and
my thoughts will be half understood
half appreciated and
half loved;
characterized by nothing more than luck,
who chose,
blindfolded
which thoughts deserved to be seen and
which ones would be
lost in translation,
from my head to the paper
existing clearly in my mind
yet appearing as hieroglyphics-
and i have yet to find my rosetta stone

my hand writing isn’t flowing
curving cursive
like a finger teasing down your spine
it’s rough
like the goosebumps
i wish i gave you
i want to decipher the brail on your arms
but i am not bold enough to touch you

Sometimes I forget
My own handwriting
And my "A"s come out wrong
Not looking at all like me
So I have to look back
At poems from yesterday
And forge my own signature
If I manage to remember
Where I set my pen down

A hand scribbles violently.
The pen carving through the lined paper.
Black Ink spilling out of the deep cuts,
Soaking into the pristine page.
Words blocking out the light,
By illuminating knowledge.
Strong, scared, and weary hands fight.