My detective father
told me my identity
was in my finger prints
so i gazed  upon my finger tips
with no explanation
I pointed to a friend
who said he knew
me
like the back of  his hand
as he caressed my palm
tracing the lines of the future
I asked if he could tell me something
about my finger tips
he said they were stubby
and dropped my hand
I collected this information
without taking a stand
He doesn't know me at all
My detective father
told me lies
conceal the truth
so why bother?
I lied for twenty seven days
I figured
no one would pay attention
did I mention
I carved the mayan  calendar
yes
my fingers
shaped the future
my essence
On display
tapping my fingers
against the pavement
corrupted Earth
no one knows me from a hand shake
tho they've touched my identity
so when looking at your finger tips
remember it takes so much more
to know who your gonna be