Gentle Hands

[hobbit86]

I look down at these hands and see,
What has finally become of me.
These hands have been through everything,
Have felt much more than words can sing.

These tiny hands held on so strong,
To those hands that made them belong.
Tiny hands so full of trust,
That in years to come turns to dust.

In teenage years these hands held pride,
Those hopes and dreams glowing inside.
These hands held laughter, friendship and joy,
Who'd have thought it could be destroyed.

These gentle hands which could not hurt,
Were left bleeding alone in the dirt.
They felt the entrance of the shame,
The hope and joy has turned to pain.

These hands await a better day,
Wanting hope, trust and dreams to stay.
But aged become these callous hands,
With wrinkles like waves in the sand.

Arthritic hands with no strength,
To hold another for any length.
Scarred hands which cannot trust no more,
Alone and dirty, forever sore.

My hands are dirty,
And cannot be cleaned.
My hands are empty,
Because of this fiend!

Invisible Shadows 2011


This is one of my favourite poems...whenever people ask "what's your favourite feature?" some people say "my hair", "my bum", "my legs"....my favourite feature are my hands...I have very small hands, no bigger than a childs, they are slender, and the fingers aren't too long, and they aren't stubby...considering they are used a lot, they are still quite soft...and so when I was really depressed, sat on my bedroom floor, just within my own head trying to escape the 'world', I was sat cross legged looking down at my hands...and that's how this poem came about....