How cruel that I stammer over words
  when written by someone else… that
  my mind cannot accept a logical progression
  of ideas and emotions.

But that I write my own… then, ah then
  I can dance with the language… I can
  play with it like a father tossing a ball
  lovingly to his son… a mother teaching
  a daughter the beauties of a changing
  form… a moment of grace before my eyes.

Still, perhaps my words only mean something
  to me, for I understand my fractured
  sentences… my thought patterns… my
  lack of purpose…
  but to live and breathe in the now like a child
  writing his first word in crayon.