Why can't we see
what was always there?
Did we not look hard enough,
or just not try hard enough?
When the lights are off,
Hands become your eyes
Only then,
Can we truly see
The hidden depth
of true beauty.

What we were & what we are,
But who are we?

How did we come to be?
The question that
Puzzles the human race.
Sometimes we forget
That it’s not *where
We have been
That is important,
But who we are going to be.

What does it mean
To mean?
What does it matter
To matter?
How does it feel
To feel?
All I know is that,
It Feels like it Means something,
to Matter.

Maybe I was never broken,
Just not the way you wanted,
Maybe it hurts you,
to know that I am more
than just an extension of you.
You expected me to be a mirror,
But just because you can’t see yourself in me,
Doesn't mean I’m broken glass.

Hands have a power,
unlike any other.
They can lend a hand,
Or hold people down.
Spend years to build cities,
Or press the button,
that destroys them.
They can touch and feel,
yet they can also strangle.
Our eyes give us two dimensions,
Hands give us the third.
But the real problem is,
That hands never hold enough hands.
Only because,
we are too busy,
holding them in fists.

Together we follow,
whoever walks in front.
Minding our own footsteps,
But never looking up.
Shuffling without purpose,
around an endless circular track.
They never rest or stop,
just to wonder Why?
But that doesn't change a thing,
Because we follow just the same.