Hands
I once knew a man with calloused hands.
Music would fly from the torn and hardened fingers.
It sounded liked a two-year-old's laughter and
sometimes it rang with a little boy's curiosity.
This man held lots of unanswered pain,
and he used to swallow it down into a purple haze.
At times he only knew two things: kindness and cruelty.
I felt so sad for him.
The shape of his hands made him cry,
and his voice harsh and scared. "I am ugly
I am ugly! Go away!" I didn't move beyond
my space. I held his hands and his tears.
I looked at the burns, cracks, and the places
hardened by life and music. Each line formed
a paragraph, and each change made the illustrations
to his story. It was a book with no words.
I told him so, though I don't think he believed me.
I read a beautiful story, but I'm sure it's changed.
Even though, I still remember the man with calloused hands.
Music would fly from the torn and hardened fingers.
It sounded liked a two-year-old's laughter and
sometimes it rang with a little boy's curiosity.
This man held lots of unanswered pain,
and he used to swallow it down into a purple haze.
At times he only knew two things: kindness and cruelty.
I felt so sad for him.
The shape of his hands made him cry,
and his voice harsh and scared. "I am ugly
I am ugly! Go away!" I didn't move beyond
my space. I held his hands and his tears.
I looked at the burns, cracks, and the places
hardened by life and music. Each line formed
a paragraph, and each change made the illustrations
to his story. It was a book with no words.
I told him so, though I don't think he believed me.
I read a beautiful story, but I'm sure it's changed.
Even though, I still remember the man with calloused hands.