A poem entitled These Hands


These Hands

 

We as artists have a bad habit

Not of thinking we can change the world

But of knowing it

And we are all searching for that little bit

Of immortality

Something that will long out live us

And come alive again

Every time

We enter the heart or mind

Of another

Whether we die in obscurity

Or in a fine mansion

Whether we are introverts

Or chasing celebrity

We are the same

This year has caused great insight in me

As hard as it has been

I have asked the question why

So many times

But never before have I asked what?

What matters?

What really matters to you?

And while these words are fine

And get me higher than I have ever been

It’s you

You who I love

And you who sees me for who I am

And manages to love me still

For every scar

For every scream

For every kindness

And every dream

You love me still

To thank you would be a disservice

As those words can never be enough

All I can offer in return

Is my own loyalty

My own love

My own promise

You know I have a knack

For breaking things

But I also have a talent

For picking up the pieces

So give me your heart

And as gently as I break it

I will heal it

You give me a chance

When no one else will

You breathe into me life

Even when I don’t want it

Your sacrifice does not

Go unnoticed

Let me leave you with this thought

I will carry you in every word I write

And I will hold you with these hands

These hands that change the world

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