"Wash your hands!" they told us
from such a tiny age
even when they look so clean
we wash them anyway
becuase deep down we all know
things aren't as they seem
Our hands look pure, but we all know
they're soaked in dreaded things
Our fingernails crusted with mud
our palms a bloody red
the graveyard of our innocence
the paintings of our dead
Your hands are filthy!
Look at them!
I will tell you this
you cannot pick up dirt to toss
without covering your own hands
and the stains of the wounds you've drawn
will always remain
we wash our hands to clean our sins
but hands are not forgiving
YOU ARE READING
The Bitter Truth of Growing Up
PoetryA series of poetry written by me for personal expression as opposed to creating work to show others, but I thought I'd share it online so maybe someone will enjoy it. The cover is made with the wattpad cover app. Feel free to contact me!
