| » Poem: Of What these Hands Cannot Tell |
Of What these Hands Cannot Tell
written by Miracle_in_Hell03:51 AM 1/29/05I sit on spears each day, adoring that knife that seeps through my flesh.
I cannot seem to get enough of the pleasure I can get from it;
Love it, even with the horrid pain it brings, I do.
And when it seems to fade away, when it has gone to find another way-
I call it back to come to me and think I need it so.
Its shine will always bring me a smile, make me feel unbelievable inside.
When I hold it in my hand and conquer those foes of life
It makes me feel better then I should.
But there is always a darkness it brings to me eventually,
It pains and stings and makes me cry-
A task I always hate to execute.
And after I have shed the blood and wait for scars to dispel,
I call it back, once more to me to feel the greatness it always gives.
Upon my hand I bear a glove, the glove that is only seen with eyes
But I go beyond that and see it with my heart.
It is the one thing that keeps space between me and the knife and tries to steer me clear.
And after each perilous fight I hold with that knife,
This glove is what soaks in my tears
It will not see another cry; it is something it longs not to perceive-
So it takes them in as I wipe my face clean,
And keeps its warmth close to me to make sure I remain safe.
And sometimes I wish I could adore this glove, as much as I do the knife
But maybe I already do, so I keep it on my hand,
And yet in my futility, I call once again, for the knife to return
As the glove remains on my hand. |
All (c)Copyrights reserved by the Original Author.
Author's footnotes and comments on this Poem:
This is a completly metephorical piece. Each object represents a person very dear and important to me. This reflects how I treat each and how they treat me, through many situations. It would mean a lot if you told me what you thought about the piece, so please do.
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