On something I detest as much
As my hands-
With tragic stump fingers
They seem to only have a firm grip on betrayal.
In written words I’ve always found more clarity
Than in a million verbal tries.
But my wrists and palms cannot keep up
With the speed of thought-
Cramping and failing
Like a deteriorated old fool
Too stubborn to surrender to age.
Despite the love of music that my ears provide Stumbling across strings and banging
It is my hands-
With short and inefficient fingers
All the wrong notes-
That render me tuneless.
Stumbling across strings and banging
Through erratic snaps and twitches
They expose me at my most vulnerable.
Through their unsure clammy grasp
They soil even the tenderest of gestures.
They prove themselves just as worthless
In more masculine situations.
With pre-arthritic weakness
They render me a mediocre puncher,
A frustrated hockey player,
And an un-intimidating ‘fuck you’.
I hate my hands,
Whose mind so often disagrees with me
Because they have created by far
More trouble than they’re worth-
Tracing adulterous lines
When they should be lovingly focused-
And yet when alone,
Only serving as a melancholy reminder of solitude.
I’m a prisoner to their whim,
Finding that no matter where I put them
They never rest content.
Always taunting that they are the foundation
Of all of my accomplishments
And constantly the architects of failure.