They say that when you grow up,
The world will be in your hands.
Yet, small phalanges cannot affect such diversity,
Correct?


The thought is comforting,
However, disagreement tugs me.
This simple body part
Functions in ways that could
Destroy or ****.

Fingers dance upon
Passionate melodies
Or provide
Soothing caresses
Assuring you that you are in peace.


But some are stained crimson
With marks of sin.

Callused, rough, and
Ignorant about a
Tender touch.


Nimble and agile, they create
Illusions the human eye
Cannot follow,
Letting them have freedom to
Manipulate and control
Weak minds.

Yet they also spring delight in
Children's eyes.
Their imagination beholds
Tales of magic and fairytales with each
Flick of the wrist.

When you're in a void,
Consumed by your thoughts, just
Weeping,
Regretting,
Loathing,
Aching,
Doesn't a spark light a
Fire of desperate hope
For a savior to pull you out?

Unpredictable movements of doing the
Wrong things for the right reasons,
Or vice-versa,
Who can you really trust?

Unpredictable movements of doing the
Wrong things for the right reasons,
Or vice-versa,
Who can you really trust?

Human hands hold frail things with
Care or recklessness.

Human hands  share
Fear or love.

Human hands display
Favor or hatred.

Take my two cents and tread carefully.
The globe is but fragile glass

*Entrusted in your hands.