Poem #19

Hands

Hands, what have they done with my life, what have I done with them? My hands have touched paper, pencil, paint, cloth, water, and another person's hands. Some people have small, thin, slim, thick, larger hands, smaller hands. I think my hands are just the right size. The fingers are not too long, the nails are small enough to scratch an itch, but not long enough to cause damage, my palms are callused, but soft with a firm, but kind grip. My hands have scars that remind me who I am. My hands have touched things that have taken me back on the right path to my life, they’ve touched rocks, sticks, grass, charcoal, but my favorite thing I’ve touched is another hand. Hand holding is such an innocent and kind action, it’s pure and filled with love. Holding hands with family, friends, even a lover… You could be holding hands while talking as you walk in the park late at night going home or even just as a way to comfort someone. My hands tell a story, a personal one, and I’d rather keep them away from the hands that hurt.