The worthlessness of my own skills

These hands, my own hands
Will never do, what I'll request
For I see works of many others,
I know I'll never be better than now

Imaginary art, looked so great in my mind
But as my pen graces the paper
It's worse than everyone's else
I regretted even thinking of this

So, I though, drawing is not my skill
Not even a single little ounce
And so, I have to move on
To find the next special skill

But even as this is being wrote
I doubt my own skill, even resent at it
For the way and uses of my word
The style and format of writing.

I wonder if I'm be good as anything
To be special in my own way
because through I've everything thought of
none have, I ever done great
Or to the point of my own satisfactions

However maybe, just maybe.....
My standards a little too high for a first timer