Sandpaper dry are my lips?

When I am most in need of the wetness of words.

Vowels and consonants fix to the roof of my mouth,

Sticky and thick and too afraid to crawl to the edge of my lips,

Too afraid to weave with music and hang in the open air for all to see,

For all to critique and judge.

My feet fixed in place,

Yearn to mold themselves into wheels,

With my heart the thrumming engine,

They would wheel me away until I am driving off into the great nothingness.

Anything, I presume is better than this,

Any escape, no matter how cowardly,

Is better than the disappointment of an artist too shy to share his talent.