Killing me.
I sat in the waiting room
looking down at my hands.
Hands are a funny thing you know.
No matter how hard you try
to stay youthful. Take care of
your body and face.
Somehow your hands always
reveal the truth.
Like your age.
And things you have done with them.
I looked down and I cried.
All these things I can do with my hands
all these things I know.
If your heart were to stop
I could help you.
But I can't save you
from your own mind.
All I can do is hold you.
And it's killing me,
that right now,
I can do no more.
4 comments:
Wonderful Poem Kimberly. Yes hands is what separates the working class from the non ect.. They do reveil a lot about us.
Mine are very soft. I have had a privileged life in some ways.
It is a wonderful poem, though, isn't it? We are getting good people here.
Yes, Bruce you are getting some outstanding poets here
Kimberly, enjoyed the truth of this poem
My hands are soft now. My ditch diggin days are over.
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