Hate

I trace the lines
With my
Eyes.
The patterns fluctuate
Promising no
Shapes.
Angles don't flex
Into the
Pages.
The writing is
Tired and
Drips.
But she has
Those graceful
bones.
My paper sways
on violent
Lead.
I desire a
Clean, straight
Length.
But I merely
await for
Lines.
Lines to recover
From this
sickness.