Hands

I'm in a trance

Staring at my hands, and everything they do

Everything they touch

Everything they feel

Everything they expirience

And change.

I'm sudenly shaken awake by the abnoxious clamoring of voices

Sarah, 

they say,

You will never be a neurosuregon

And I say,

Thank god.

Because with these hands, I hope to change a life

Sure

And save one

Of course

But the only things I have regarded as tools

Or useful even,

I yearn to use in a rare way.

My hands and mind are different,

Obviously,

But posessing that responsibility,

A delicate life,

Like a neurosurgeon would,

Or even trading stocks

in the midst of chaos,

Are actions my hands could never handle. 

Or aren't meant to do at least.

I know this when my hands 

Become clammy and shake with fear

At the glance of threats

Or even the inevitable future

Regardless of the grandness of schemes.