With these hands of I what would be the worth of my sweat
The many things I would of done and not, would be closely in the fears of only my regret.

Yet with such these hands what towers do I Build
Collapsing on itself. To clear new ground but on such an already empty field.

And as children would play amongst in the carnage, as to they a Play Ground
I held onto their joyful laughter to increase mine. Though would my own Mother be that of I so proud.

But with such hands I find myself to quick to hold onto to sadness that it bruises my fingers
Instead to build a future for my own, I would have aimlessly build hope in empty figures.


So for a man of I, shall I honestly use such of my hands wisely in the views of my eyes.
Though not to be caught up in the storm of these clouds of Grey Lies.

For with such these hands of I.