Windows

I've read that eyes are the windows to the soul

But I have seen lying eyes.

big brown ones, full of good intentions

light green eyes that seemed to adore

Two pairs of blue eyes that promised unconditional love.

But the hands showed the true actions of their souls.

Their knuckles made holes in plaster when their minds splintered,

They had outstretched fingers when they realized that everyone dies alone,

and I have known a lot of people whose hands spend more time

holding a guitar neck, or a pen,

instead of me.

My own hands have gone from fist to outstretched palm

too many times in one day.

I’ve found myself fighting against people with one hand

and reaching for them with the other.

My left and right hands contradict themselves,

Maybe my eyes will tell the truth,

if you look through their panes can you see

the moat of confusion that surrounds a crumbling castle?

I’ll tell you what I see.

I see too many wolves in sheep’s sweaters,

my hands are quick to turn to fists the second I see fangs.

Which has given me bruised knuckles and busted lips

but I would rather have bloodied hands than a bloodied back

from yet another knife, trying to make a bullseye

in red circle tattoo’d on my back.

Hit the center, and you might be the one to sever my spine

So I keep my back to the wall

my fists in front of my chin.

There is one thing that’s true about the eyes,

they show you where your opponent intends to strike.