A mothers hands so gentle
So soft
Caring for her children
Is all she knows

A fathers hands are rough
For he works with his hands
Someone else's dreams
Then he comes home
With the hard earned
To pay
The bills
For his family

The children's only
Real job
Is to imagine
Little masterpieces with
Their hands

Hands are the gateways to
Our lives

colada 3d

To the pain in my wrists,
I cannot wave hello.
My silent screaming
through these carpal tunnels.
Numb tingling, travelling
from my fingertips
to the nerves at the top of my head.
Focus faltering
thanks to the constant pinching
in my very own palms.
I dropped my coffee cup.

it really hurts I can't work properly and it's driving me insane I know I should go to the doctor but I don't like hospitals

I have the heart of an artist,
but hands that disagree.
So the lined page
has become my canvas,
and various combinations
of 26 letters,
my medium.

your hands still burn on my waist
your fingers would pat
and your hand would move

up and down against my waist
almost touching my ribs
our height feeling miles apart

your thumbs would run across my bone
i could feel your hands burn through the fabric
of the cheap red dress

you hummed along to a humdrum song
a song I’d heard a million times
a song I never get sick of

your fingers caressed my back
and moved like they did on a piano
and reminded me what caring touch felt like

your hands still burn on my waist
barely touching my ribs
leaving me empty

I want to reach down your skirt and bring
                             The souvenir of the gods

I want to murder your voice
                                With a silent kiss
Let me bring you joy and slip my hands through
                                Your bleeding fingers of working too much.

I will run my fingertips down your back
And feed you my touching love,
                      I want to touch your sweaty soul again.

erin 4d

with your hands before they ever touched me
i want to kiss your knuckles and thank them for their strength
i'll hold your fingers for the art that they create
i'll ask so kindly for them to press against mine
you'll look at me as if i were crazy
but i'll kiss them all the same
because hands tell a lot about a person
and yours told me enough to make

mumble your way through my mind
and pick apart every memory you come across.
just for now
tell me of the starlight glittering blue and white in the sky.
hold each speck in the palm of your hand
and then let them fall back into the earth
when they shine no longer.
keep me by your side, devout astronomer.
and let your hands
guide me through the sky.

But I lied.                            They don't.
Her hands are very small,
So small as to grasp a thousand

While mine are too big,
So big as to grow myself into this singular lonely

Sometimes my fingers slip through and
The too-fast-cars
Chasing the politics
Swaddling the wet rashed babies
Birthed from the awkward sex
The tongue-tied trying
Fall into CONSTRUCTION gaps

We didn't plan our fingerprints.
But what a stupid thing to say.

I was little when I used big words
Maria Etre Jun 16

One hand
loses itself
in straight lines
as they curve
around that white
paper connecting
his mind to paper

While the other
taps, in synch
with those thoughts
balancing his being
between art

twenty-six Jun 16

i don't want to let go
of the hands
i have yet to hold

hold me, instead.
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