Hands

Hands inlayed with pain

Bleeding from success

Reserved for only one

Yet used by everyone else.

 

They tremble and shake 

Unsure of what is to come next

A reflection of the image seen before

And yet they always settle, always.

 

One day to the next

Over and over again and again

An endless cycle of catch and release

But where lies the end?

 

While it may never come

Least till the day they become stiff

Then limp

Then gone.

 

These hands will fight on

Tremble as they may

But always settle, always

Crafting their way to a better future. 

 

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This poem is about: 
Me
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