Hands
I see, these scarred hands.
The skin, wearing away, from the repeated washings.
The rashes, that never goes away, perpetuated by being allergic to gloves.
The stiff fingers, that cramps from being confined too often in small spaces.
The veins, enlarged and ghastly, from overexertion of strength.
The trembles, from holding unto instruments for too long at a time.
The palms, that are no longer soft, but bearing close resemblance to sawdust.
These, are my hands.
They may be worn out, but they remind me, daily...
That they ARE the hands...
That brings life to the world.
So scarred, as they may be...
I am proud, to call them...
Beautiful.
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