My Hands
My hands are clenched into fists
Knuckles white, bulging like boulders of rage
They tremble with the weight of repressed fury
Itching to lash out, to break something, anything, everything
Each finger is ready to poke hard, judge and condem
A violent storm of chaos and pain boiling beneath my skin
My hands, once full of vibrant life
Creative and healing
Now they just rest here, useless
Still, void of life like dead, wilted flowers
Where vital energy once flowed through
Now tired, worn, barbed wire around my bones
Fingers that once held love, held hope very tight
Have become gnarled and weak,
Grasping only the black emptiness of sorrow
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