Writing me

It started out as a line -my written word,
unsteady, unsure,
the first pencil duel with the frictions
of uneven surface. Naturally levo-dexterous,
till ruthlessly forced to switch right to align
the forces of compliance; negate freedom.

Cursive was a curse, framed in rules of
modern calligraphy , unjustly summoned
for a parley offered to the captured;
obey or perish.

Lost in the wilderness of letters, dismayed
and envying  friends writing as if with a
quill, yet rejected tandem temptations
strewn across slender conformity.

A swash of T and strike of F found me
soon, loops and lumps aplenty;
words seemed not mere calligraphic, but
picturesque, ideas reflected off edges of
million gems, afloat in the myriad stems
and petite petals I gave each letter;
as  a teacher woefully complained
‘Beautiful, beautiful, but I cannot read’.

Thus it has remained, a bit more legible
perhaps,
still beautiful, beautiful, but not to be read;
Should make one wonder, if these words
really were about words at all!