I looked at my hands today.
they are the hands of a man who should not have worked a day in his life.
long slender fingers that should have been unblemished.
Soft Palms that could show love at the lightest touch.
thin wrists that should not have carried the weight they did.
nails so pristine they almost looked manicured.
But these are not my hands anymore
Here are my hands, callouses grown thick in the nooks of every finger,
nails torn off and bitten to a sharp edge,
White specks spreading in every inch of every nail,
The backs of my hands tattooed with scars.
cuts wrap around my fingers like a spiders web,
bruises grow along young but battered bones.
cuticles torn. Blood pours from places unseen beneath my skin.
I have not been kind to my hands
i had the hands of a musician
and I wanted them
My touch could have been so warm.
so soft.
But now my hands lie here.
smashed upon boulders of pain,
damaged beyond repair
fractures splitting down my bones from the last outburst of pain.
Of anger.
Cold like my mind, warmth siphoned off by my unseen terrors in my brain
A mere extension of this lifeless husk I feel myself becoming.
I wish I could cut these hands off.
give them to someone more deserving
someone who does not seek to destroy their own beauty
because beauty is not the only thing they can control.
Someone who does not fear showing love through their fingertips.
someone who could appreciate the care god have to make such perfect hands
I wish these hands be free of my body
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Author:
bevan tse stuart (
Offline) - Published: June 22nd, 2023 17:03
- Comment from author about the poem: I broke my hand recently. One night I got given some pretty harsh news on my walk home. I punched a lamp post and broke my fourth and fifth metacarpals. I barely even felt it. Went three days with a broken hand before my friends told me to go to the hospital.
- Category: Sad
- Views: 4
Offline)
Comments2
This is okay.Thew hands are certainly a wonder to behold.Well done
same as me, fractured my arm once
passed out, got back up
went on for a few days
before
I got convinced to visit hospital
six months in cast...
some of us are sadly
just too used to pain
to recognise, a new one
being added to the pile...
a great write, dear poet
love the sincerity
(please, permit me to share with you
one of my favourite poems of all time:
'"This living hand, now warm and capable"
BY JOHN KEATS
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it towards you.')
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