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My Hands
My Hands
Words can’t describe the flow of my fingers.
The move with such precision without decision.
They dance all over the body and all over the paper.
A dance so fluent and smooth,
I envy my own hands for their perfection.
This is not narcissistic simply reality.
I watch their movements,
Their work is so tedious and so simple.
I can’t believe my eyes at their dance.
My hands.
The hands that tilled fields four hundred years ago.
The ache and history behind them.
There is so much to my hands.
I see the writing of a Declaration.
The blood flowing to the tips to let every letter be supreme.
I ask myself over and over why my hands would be touched?
Then I realize they’re not touched.
But simply are.
My hands are a gateway to so much expression.
From the rally’s of old to the protests of the present.
My fingers to the knuckles,
From the knuckles to the wrists.
Such sweet movement they create.
Through literature and idealism,
The words I speak never so big as the one’s my hands say.
My hands.
The speakers of my mind.
The representatives of my heart.
The fist created, equal to my heart.
Put them side by side and a message of power is created.
My hands.
The old hands to the new hands.
My blood the same through both sets.
This life is new and lived by a legacy and history of the past.
Within that past are bloody hands, tired hands.
My hands lucky to have survived the burdens of those,
Not effected in anyway by such pasts.
My hands flow with the blood of struggle.
Creating immunity to struggle.
I will beat all in the path with these hands.
My hands.
__________________
I rolled four times and landed on my feet
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