these hands,
these hands were meant
to melt in the keys of the piano
and not for pushing buttons
to operate complex machinery,
these hands were meant
to climb the plateau’s of New Mexico
and not for spilling a half bottle of
Dutch milk while the tv watches me
passed out on the couch,
these hands were meant
to build treehouses for my children
not to drunk punch lousy bums
on the slum streets and lose,
these hands were meant to
pick peaches in the orchards of Georgia
and not to be holding my **** as it
****** in the linen closets and China cabinets
while in the drunken state of befuddlement,
these hands were meant to
make colossal sandwiches
and not to swipe my card
in the drive-thru,
these hands were meant
to caress my wife and
waltz her through life
and not be defiant,
these hands were meant
for gumption and not for
delusions of grandeur,
these hands were meant
to make my own dreams come true
and not someone else’s,
these hands were meant
to have purpose, talent,
motivation, diligence
and not to be shoved
into the pockets of uncertainty and
suffering from indolent characteristics,
these hands were meant
for bigger indentations
in the world and not to be
tyrannized by simplistic minds
these hands,
these hands,
these hands...
but somewhere down the lifeline
of my palms
I had left behind
my spirit and my soul
a long, long time ago
and it’s never too late
to get it back,
oh no,
it’s never too late
to get it all back.
