My hands are stained with ink
And old forgotten lore.
My fingers, long and slender
Pull notes from every chord.
My hands are stained with ink
And my fingers striped with staffs.
Eventually they'll fade
But paintings and music will always last.
YOU ARE READING
A Collection Of Various Poems
PoetryBet you didnt know I write weird, spur-of-the-moment poetry only my friends like, huh?
