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.

Britt. =:)


The burn

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.