I am not very good at alot of things;

I cannot paint you pictures because the beautiful things in my head cannot be translated.

Nor can I sing to you, as my voice has an uncanny habit of falling flat.

I can't play for you as my fingers fumble when my thoughts cross over to how you look, watching me.

But I can brush the knots out of your hair, and work the knots out of your back when your day has become too much to bear.

I am not good at much, but I will be good to you.