I once had the smallest hands
I reflect upon one afternoon
Leading to their earnest review
These beat up, sore and tired hands
How completely different are they
Fully grown as I am today
These ways of earning a living demand
Strength, precision, more than a hint
Talent and lessons apparent upon each
Scars, scabs and at times swelling
When the tougher days at last end

I used to have the smallest hands
Before my youth was traded
When my life became work
Survival from what I do with them.

The lines contrast starkly
Against the prestinely white
Paper medium of this art
Blank and screaming
Pleading to bring to light
These feelings all trapped in
As I try I often find that I
Simply live an unremarkable life
That is missing any type of spark
No real sorrow or strife
Or complicated views on why
Less glamourous struggles
Most times I write
It is borne less from my eyes
It's me pretending at the poetic angst within