These hands of mine
Carry the burden given by us all
The labor of surviving in the wild concrete jungle
Demonstrates itself in the form of sweat trickling
Pores widening, opening itself up to the world
Bloody tears plops onto those hardened, callused and
miraculous hands
Scheming to drink those tears- the only source of water left
Hesitates, but first makes a plan
To stop those tears from escaping the grasp
of his cracked round and coiled fingers
Cups his hand as Satisfaction is won
Those crusty lips only got crustier, but he didn't care
As his mind was doped into a mirage while working
Imagining his fingers to look like corn cobs and his red plush palms
To resemble that of a sweet, plump tomato
Looking into the mirror, what exactly did he see?
He wished knew who the handsome young man was
Anyways, he remembered a quote he read and memorized
A quote that to this day has always evaded him
"Regardless humans alike including myself have a conscience
that proves too strong or too weak, but real strength is not measured
by virtue or vice"
Standing with ears perched on the heavy smog
He accepted this quote as his motto meekly