Poems about hands

Fingers,
Hands.

Nail beds,
Knuckles.

Palms so sweaty,
I could replenish all seven seas.

Thumbs,
The freckle on the inside of my left ring finger.

I wish,
They would stay together.

My fingers,
They always find back doors and wander off to new continents.

My palms,
Continue to melt away with the salt water they leak.

My freckle,
Left me for another.

And now all i have is wrist stumps,
And no way to reach the scratch on my back.

This pain is a second this pain is a moment.
I am hoping that I have now learned my lesson.
My hands feel these pins and needles
My heart holds them slowly becoming discomfort.

My barbed heart is dangerous to touch.
I need a hand that can fit between these cracks in my foundation.
My barbed heart tied together with strings of thought
And reels of memories about people that I won't allow to die in vain.

Birth
And
Death
Not in
Our hands

Only the
Life and
Relations
We are holding

Be good and do good

Now a days
One silly incident
Or a simple thing
Breaks a relationship
So, be aware of it

Put your ego on one side
And just carry on

Teachers, moms, nurturing women always,
Feel my pain.
As I stick my fingers into my mouth,
And try to chew off my insecurities.
Or my nervousness.
Or chewing off my boredom.
I'll chew off anything.
Can I bite your nails for you?

That's how I care for you.
I'll bite off your insecurity. Your pain. Your boredom.
Your lack of knowledge. Your prettiness.
I'd bite it all off for,
This is a love curse.
You had to walk in at this moment didn't you,
So I can give you what you need,
So I can bite off all that we can chew.

I want you to be happy. You will be happy.
Probably not with me. I want everything.
You're right about that.
I don't want you to have to bite your fingers.
I want to bite them all for you,
You're not this way though.
I know you.

You have to do things, I have to do things.
I cant be your teacher.

Our paths cant cross,

And I cant mistake your hands for mine.

I create, but cannot make
Myself a heart that will not break,
And still feel in the same way,
Compared to flesh, steel feels so fake,
Iron alters love's sweet taste,
My tongue finds it a waste.
With out the honey from the hive,
Do bees have reason to be alive-
To pollinate?
Would each flower taste like hate?

These broken hands on this broken man
Can't be fixed by sand pressed into glass.
It just melts and drips into the cracks,
And I find when I slip they just come back.
I know this fix isn't permanent,
Of all I make,
My crutch is the only thing that breaks.
I'm lame. Crippled by my shame,
And she's the one to blame,
Boasting perfection,
I'm shadowed by her projection.
Disregarding my creations, with haste
I wallow in her unending hate.

I make, but can't create
Myself a lovely face,
One that she can grace,
With loving touch
At a gentle pace.

Her heart is the place where my emotions go to waste.

-SLuR

My hands are pregnant with poetry.
Words and phrases formed in its belly.
And now it is time.
The due date was a month ago.
It is an act of labor.
I kept trying.
And I had to open myself.
To people who I did not know.
Then the poetry was finally pulled out.
And a doctor slapped me.
Not with a ticket
Those are police you are thinking about
And not on my back side.
But we slapped hands
Together in unity
Because he said he finally got
Why I wrote poetry
Because at first it was inside of me.
And now what I had
Is the world's to enjoy.

Bruises on my ribs from a rock beneath the floor of a tent,
Bruises on my neck from your teeth and you have a beautiful
Jaw line. My fingertips dip, you say. That isn't normal. And
Colors in your eyes are impossible to replicate in my mind.
I'll study your face, the skin on the back of your hands and the
Curve
Of your bones. That word makes me nauseous. Curve
Away from me, grow like a bonsai tree
I say please then whisper apologies
Too often
I know exactly what I want but refuse to chase it
Because I am temporary, I'll wound you and leave
A beautiful scar. You have a beautiful jaw
Line.

Charcoal grey lines of your lashes
Fill my vision as laughter expands like bubbles beneath my
Ribcage.
Liquid happiness curls down the vains lining your arms as you pluck
My heart strings one by one with familiar palms
Familiar fingers covered in charcoal.
The dust of longing clinging to our frames
As we curl in eachothers warmth
Hidden beneath the silky darkness of the distant sky
Stars which laugh distantly at our foolish words.
Words that fall as charcoal does
Soft, light, all consuming in its subtly
Coating the whispered phrases in a filmy darkness.
Even as our hearts beat and our breaths become one it is
Somewhow perfectly dissonant in its innocence.
I am not innocent.
The draw you hold on my body is unshakable
Unspeakable in its strength and for years the faded pictures have wrinkled
Have crumbled gently at the edges
Soft strokes of light dust marring the surface
But it is still beautiful
You are still beautiful.
Black as charcoal
The love I feel for you
Stains my heart.
And I have found years later
Lovers later
I cannot let you go.