Dear Hands

Dear hands.

You love writing poetry but you can't bring a metaphor to a war and hope to shoot someone with your words that were lost in your own translation

you keep letters in fixation. 

Building a character upon college-ruled lines

until each syllable is filled with foliage. 

Vines towering every allusion in high towers made with verbs and vowels. 

Stop writing or you'll get word arthritis

 alliteration decay

or worse yet, you'll have nothing left to say

My hands. 

 

Fixed points in destination

keeping away from preservation

rotting out

locking joints. 

They sank this ship without a doubt

Blame, blame, blame it on my hands

My mind thought the words but my hands brought them forward

Using consonance and rhyme to fix unfixable sounds

searching for things that will never be found

 

Oh hands.

You aren't the only one who writes poetry

 worse than most, you only focus on me

Selfishness rings true in your motions and fountain pens

you can't forgive your sins with charcoal or a word press.

You kept my mind full, rather than my stomach

Anxiously waiting and gripping faintly

you grabbed my lungs and used them for speaking meaningless phrases

seemingly for no purpose

 

And these metacarpals 

Give maturity irresponsibility

snaps the back of irrational thoughts

The words that bend and break are all created and blood related

by the two hands that take reality from a materialist

They gave root to a tree that was planted in a thought

that was planted in a mind

that was hard as stone

Crazy as it may seem

these hands that shake and tremble

have never fumbled the ball of letters

 

Hands.

Bones stacked and linked

with so many chances that they may have too many chinks in this armor

Tendons that became stiff from the cold winds that briskly flew past me

and I'm sickly demented because I personified my eyes as if they were a part of you.