My hands are not easy to hold
They are calloused
From where I press my fingers
On the strings of my guitar
And creased from where
They fold when I clench my fists
They shake
With the same rhythm
My soul tremors
They are scratched
And bruised
And the nails chipped
They are paint-stained
And ink-poisoned
Clothed in the aftermath of creation
But they are soft
And ever-ready
And strong
My hands are not easy to hold
But they are worth the effort
p.e.j.
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Poems that Nobody Reads
PuisiA collection of poems that I write that everyone thinks are stupid (and they're probably right).
