Medicine For the Mentally Wounded


My hands are thin,

My fingers slim

I scrub them an srub them

But they are calloused from helping him.

My shoulder is bony

And dry to the touch

But she brings life to it

By crying a little too much

My stomach is flat

Yet it always makes me cringe

But a child rests on it

Swinging with a hand like a hinge

I am weak,

My arms too skinny,

But I continue to carry the psychologically damaged

And I do it with a grin - see


Guide that inspired this poem: 


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