All Nonfiction
- Bullying
- Books
- Academic
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Heroes
- Interviews
- Memoir
- Personal Experience
- Sports
- Travel & Culture
All Opinions
- Bullying
- Current Events / Politics
- Discrimination
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Environment
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
All Hot Topics
- Bullying
- Community Service
- Environment
- Health
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
- Back
Summer Guide
- Program Links
- Program Reviews
- Back
College Guide
- College Links
- College Reviews
- College Essays
- College Articles
- Back
Hands
Who asked the question
on whether or not hands
represent a snare in which
we both have been bound?
You know...
Where your hand occupied both of mine?
Yeah... that...thanks to you,
I am now festering under the captivity
that is marked on the swirled prints of my fingertips
and lined crevices of my palms
And where each line represents
the wrong paths we took
each one of us swerving
into each others’ traps
our hands.
Mingled together as a woven basket,
they spoke in unison, as they held
together their traps of affection
between my right hip and your left
our hands.
And the bleating touch of sweat
that earnestly edged at the webbing of my forefinger
from the warmth of gripped palms
was every ones’ exhibit to our infatuation
our hands.
When they gripped to create a map
where no line, no river was ever a turn gone wrong,
if separated, they resembled a trench, a ditch
in which neither of us could escape
our hands.
To our satisfaction may we hold again,
and once more may we intertwine our fingers
to examine the foul of our displeasure
and pull away once more to feel how lost we really are.
and pull away once more to feel the imprint
left on my wrists
to feel the scarlet marks of lust
wrapped around each fore arm
Where the bonds and chains
left a deepened mark
on these caramel colored fists
that used to be thrust abruptly in your rugged palms
by my own will
For me to imprison myself
by my own molded volition
to emulate into what is now
a work of stone
where no longer
may I be formed into
the image you have sought
for me to be
formed by your own hands
was I created from a blooming flower
into a rooted weed
which stays forever scarred inside
Where our hands weaved in sync
they now are left with shades of
light and dark
through the gates and blinds
left through which I can see
a little light.
Similar Articles
JOIN THE DISCUSSION
This article has 0 comments.