One's hands can show a lot about a person.
They carry the weight of existence within them.
Hands are used to offer up items out of love.
Or used to inflict pain by snatching things away.
Your hands carry a lot.
They hold a depth that I cannot yet learn of.
Maybe one day I shall.
Despite this, your hands are soft and gentle.
Your fingers having never pointed in accusation.
Much like you, they are warm.
In contrast, my hands are rough.
Battered and beaten.
They are the hands of someone trying their best to hold the weight of the world.
Yet here I stand,
Heart in my hands,
Offering it to you.
I wonder,
If I held your hands,
Would you find their coarseness unpleasant?
Because much like my hands,
I'm afraid my scars will only turn you away.
YOU ARE READING
Ramblings of a Madman
ŞiirShort poetic ramblings of my daily life, navigating the overwhelming feelings that bombard me as I await an answer. I do not write poetry, but I shall try for you.
