An Ode to my Hand
An ode to my hand, the part
of me I hate most
It’s scarred and bruised, a
non healing mess
My hand, broken and torn, a
nuisance to see
Something to try to hide
away from the world
But then I realize, it’s
just me
I knew from the beginning it
wouldn’t be pretty
A jagged scar was a fate to
be worn
I knew that pain would be
something to hide
Do you really know the pain
my hand feels inside
Is it sympathy or empathy
your hand hands to me?
An ode to my hand, it fights
a never ending battle
Its exhausted and worn, but
it still keeps on fighting
Who knew something so simple
as writing-
Could bring such a thing to
spasm, I couldn’t fathom
It takes more effort to pick
up a pencil, to hold a stencil
I never knew the wonders a
simple hand could do
Until I couldn’t do a simple
task in the end
From opening a door, to
starting my car
I struggle to wave hello to
my own friend
Every day, faced with
challenges I could conquer before
An ode to my hand, the part
of me I respect most
Its unique beauty, a non
healing muse
My hand, broken and torn,
makes me so confused
Something I really shouldn’t
hide from the word
Because, I’ve realized, it’s
just me
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