Hands In Pockets

My hands within my pockets stick, My finger feel like they've been weaved Into the threads that constrain them. Those threads, I squirm and wish to leave. Daytime necessities insist My hands within my pockets stick To search and grope without a grasp. My joints feel old and arthritic. New outstretched hands hold axes and, To save from their potential drop, My hands with my pockets stick. Still, off my bloodless hands I’d lop. My hands and pockets intertwine, Illusions made to make me sick, But still I must feel them once more. My hands within my pockets stick.