I have to wash these hands
These hands are dirty

I'ma try and write a lot of these.

Kissing my neck
Your hands firmly grasping my body
Conversation ceased
The word "virgin"
Echoed from my lips to your body
Your faulty reassurance
Echoed back
Words I'm sure are all too familiar
To your perfect and deceiving lips
Oh, meaningless love
You will never be love
Your contagion so deceiving

I've got to hand it to you,
the curvature of your palms
are so impeccable,
that they easily slip into
the palm of another,
with skin smooth or roughed
by work, and yet even those fingertips,
slender, stubby, even some missing or bent,
can delicately intertwine
as if all gestures could be made together
and your skin and fingerprints could merge
with each touch like a puzzle piece
offered in twos,
designed to craft and to hold on

Original prompt said to write about a body part so I chose hands. Let this poem lighten up the place since I'm spamming my feed rn.
AJ 6d

I believed you were a painter. Your hands, your arms – they were meant to create art. They were meant to create beautiful masterpieces. I believe I am the empty canvas and you stroke me with harsh resentment. Now, I’m colourful. Are you happy now, painter? Are you happy that red paint trickled down the canvas, where you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, the canvas have feelings too? Are you happy that traces of violet paint smeared all throughout the once white and pure canvas?  Are you done with your masterpiece? Or is your masterpiece still not finished?

JAC 7d

Laughter won't come so easy
Hands will stop being soft
Conversation will empty
The same jokes will tire
Lips will taste of past
Messages will slow
Desire will falter
But for now
Things are
So good.

Kind hands learn to be calloused hands
under the thumb of others,
and around the fingers
of ones mistaken for lovers.

Jorge Palileo Apr 20

Brain excogitated,
Heart swelled with apricity,
Hands scribed poetry

Tonya Maria Dec 2013

Caught between....
deep heartbreak
restored landscapes
it harder to recover
from these innumerable mistakes

My weak and trembling
render all actions
as the sky's rhythmic
descend hypnotically

Our bacchanalian nights
were juxtapositional
poured in guilt and wine
  my memory's remotion

Caught in an intervening space.

Hope Apr 19

In the darkest nights
we find our
scarred wrists, and
worn hands-
where the spaces between your fingers
are where mine fit perfectly.
They entwine, locking together
as one twisted, broken,
yet beautiful mess,
expressing our inner emotions
of warmth and love,
all without a

Jim Davis Apr 19

There is a place in my garden
Where I let things freely grow
Never tasting sickle, rake, or hoe
A place planted by God's hands
Not mine you see
Always fascinated how his garden
Is always much prettier than mine

©  2017 Jim Davis

Submitted for HP theme today - #hands
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