My+hand

My Hand My hands are pal for winter is near, These hands can fold in prayer, and even shape things out of clay, They are the root of my insanity when my world is falling, crumbling the sequence of rough patches on my palms catch me before I fall. A series of scars and bruises cover these abused hands, Telling a story no one knew. My fingers are short and stubby, With veins flowing each and everyway to the beat of the music These finger tips are unique, With shortly cut nails and placed with one of a kind fingerprints that name my existence. 10 strong fingers that shall be a little dirty Do to being gripped around an old worn out bat that clashes with a fast paced ball. These fingers never quit exploring All around town my fingerprints lay These are my only two hands They have been worn out to the max But still they grow everyday with me, Grasping onto new things day by day.