More Than Just Hands

Painfully looking up at the mystifying night sky above them,

The hard workers were slowly placed over a slender wooden item.

Cautiously, they began to start,

Giving the idea all of their heart.

They freely take the writer wherever he or she tells them to go,

Flowing in all directions, they couldn't get tired yet, they very well know.

Only at the very end will they be allowed to regain their strength and rest,

But for now they were slaves that earned nothing while they did their best.

Seconds passed quickly as the minutes ticked by,

Only a few more lines before they went numb and dry.

Not a moment is to be wasted as for they were controlled by some sort of spy,

Always forced to obey the master's commands without once being able to ask why.

They felt it was their duty to write, write and write,

Even if they could, they would easily lose the fight.

They were never once thanked, and were only given a sigh from the resentful master,

Once the poem was completed, the writer received all the credit and called it a disaster.