You know that feeling when your heart is racing, your palms are sweating,
You are shaky, like a butterfly
Coming out of its coccoon anew
With trembling wings and gaping steps.
Now think, just for a second
Of the grit running across the skin of your hand
Proof of labor and toil
And strength.
Think of the particles making up your palm
Combining with the dirt
And the sweat,
Keeping one outside
While ejecting one from the inside.
Now ponder of the sweat and dirt,
Combining a mixture and making a whole
Which is a part of you
That you hold dear
Even as your palms sweat,
And the grit invades your sores,
As your wounds open and fester.
Question the dirt, which will always be dirty.
The sweat, which will always serve only you,
Selfishly
To be let out into the crisp air.
And your palm,
Your fate resting in its crevices,
Its warmth rubbing against skin and all else,
Feeling, loving, hoping,
Cherishing the embrace of two.
Question your palm especially,
For not only can it be the hand of violence-
Slaughtering, killing, pillaging,
It can also be the hand of kindness-
Justice, love, and warmth.
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Spiritual"My words aren't just some petty thoughts wrapped up in eloquent packaging. They are beings that have roamed in my head and have lived in my heart. Their existence starts with a tremor, and ends in a silence so profound that it cannot be broken." -H...
