(poems go here) My hands are tools
They have dire meaning
They create and break on a whim
For that depends on the maker
These hands of mine are mine to use
With hopefully no conviction
The mark they carry stay with me
Until life benediction
With a hope that I would be seen
As I grow older I’m filled with worry
On how my past has formed me
From birth each person is like a blank piece of paper
As time passes I write my story
And pray for success that my future may bring
That hope puts things in perspective
And my actions create that path
And with these hands of mine
My life will shine
as each of works will be recognized.