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I believe we may have missed it the year of reconciliation The prospect of harmony, of order Just a smidgen from symmetry the precarious plane tipped
Dear hands, Stop shaking stop picking. I wish you'd be still and Stop scratching stop flicking. Listen,
I have these insecurities. They’re not on the inside Or maybe they are. To cover these insecurities I use a age old tool
To Hold. To Feel. To Write. To Draw. To Move. To Clench. Mine to Own, Yours to Hold. God’s best tool He’s given me. Hands.
On the outside I'm strong But on the inside I'm in Hell I make subtle cries But no one who notices will help
(poems go here) On the outside I'm strong But on the inside I'm in Hell I make subtle cries But no one who notices will help