Idle hands

My hands I try to keep busy, so my mind is not thinking as much, because when I am idle, when my hands and body haven’t a thing to do, my mind dreams. It drifts of to my vault of memories. Reminders of better times, happier days. So I work, I bust, scrap, bruise, and blister my hands. To forget, the smooth touch of soft skin, to replace those thoughts, with callused palms. I forget because those little happy glimpses are in a ocean of pain.