Soft Hands
by Peyton Chen I have soft hands. Hands that don’t know the delicate creasing of each fold in a dumpling. Hands that don’t know the smooth brush strokes of a dying language. Hands that don’t know the pride of providing countless opportunities for another. Hands that don’t know of the fear of immigrating across the world. I have soft hands. Hands that only know the work of picking up a pencil. Hands that only know the sobs of another test failed. Hands that try to grip the concept of happiness, but slip. Hands that hide loneliness and heartbreak with a thumbs up and a wave. Hands that tap on the glass that always seem to separate them from others, Waving, hoping for a wave in return or at least be seen. I have soft hands. Hands that seem to grow weak from holding the weight of the world. Hands that tremble under the weight and break. Hands that don’t know of the others that have hands open to help. Hands that wonder what would happen if they weren’t even there at all. I have soft hands Hands that seem to grow harder everyday from falling, but pushing themselves against the rough ground to stand again Hands that have grown hard at the fingertips. from creating beautiful harmonies and melodies from nothing but ink on a page. Hands that have grown tough and mud covered from caring for and holding the reins of thousand pound beasts. Hands that are learning to take other’s hands without being scared of what they may think of them. I have soft hands. Hands that regret not knowing where they came from, but are trying to hold the hands of those who know. Hands that find it difficult to get rid of the weight they’ve been holding, but have learned that others are always there to help. Hands that have given up on tapping and waving behind the glass, but have learned that, when punched out, the glass glimmers like a thousand diamonds. Hands that still feel the sobs of failure and loneliness, but have learned that even when the tears turn the dirt they've collected to slippery mud that makes it difficult to stand, The mud can be used to plant your feet even more firmly into the ground once you get up. |
Er...
by 9 Bees in a Trenchcoat Smacking Against Typewriter Keys The runner, he runs. The swimmer, he swims. The climber, he climbs. The winner, he wins. The Huber, he… er… hubes. |