AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, this poem is a tad personal. So, please no flames!!! I would like to hear you thoughts on it as it would mean a lot to me. For any of my close buddies, you may know what this is about.
Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy it.
This burn claims my hand.
The consequences of this burn
Stained everything I ever knew
Of my pristine, white fingers
And my youthful, innocent hand.
I cannot even clench my hand!
A subdued pain
Licks at my hand in undivided apathy
Yet, neither you nor I
Never thought this possibility
Would be an inevitability.
Look how weary and tiresome
My honest hand has become.
Creased with premature experiences,
Tasting like bitter fruit.
These nimble fingers were not meant
For picking ripened catastrophes.
Neither was my finger nails meant
To be double edged swords.
Yet they have grown as such.
Fulfilling knightly duties
Though knightly I was not.
My dried fingers were not
Fleshy stalks of courage,
But an accessory of an exhausted palm.
And once a palm has fallen into slumber
Only a kiss from peace
Can rouse a sleeping hand.
But now this burn is dead.
Only a dull bruise to tell me
That a kiss from emptiness
Works just as well, too.
Where is the passion in this love- hate?
My fingers tremble in anticipation
For a justice that does not seem truly just.
So, my hand is left drowsy
With the remains of a scar.