Every day I shuffle back and forth between school and home, writing those papers
finding x
learning what it means to be under pressure
like that old song that never stops
You know that’s all I listened to my freshman year?
yeah, who would.
It is with these hands that I write my theses, that I scrawl on the pages that must be turned in in only a few minutes
These hands they shake and they pound
because they do not know what else to do;
they are too big for my pockets and too alone for one another
so instead of touching and feeling they tear.
They rip down the walls of the school
and they break the bones of the bullies.
These hands are strong, even though I am not
so my hands take my pen, and they take my paper, and they make words I never could
They speak languages I dare not speak because I am afraid
I do not remember when I last found x or when I last wrote a paper-
a true one, one that hinted at how I feel because it is not me who writes them
These hands take over and they show the world what I am too afraid to
so don’t stop shaking, and don’t stop pounding,
my hands are all I am
they are how i speak and how i see
i feel with them and they express how my words never could
without them I am nothing