These Hands

These hands,
The ones covered in blisters,
Type endlessly.
These hands,
Skin split across every knuckle,
Have no desire to be beautiful.
These hands,
Covered in scars
From each and every
Past mistake,
Will never strive
To be anything less
Than strong
And courageous.
These hands,
Skin stretched and worn,
Are tired of being judged
By physical traits
Because these hands,
Cuticles dry and flaking,
Nails short and uneven,
Have never had the luxury
Of having long, manicured beauties
Glistening at the end of each finger.
These hands have worked hard,
To be master violinists,
Strings pulling at the skin,
Nails always being too short
To accidentally brush a string
That would throw off the harmony.
These hands have worked hard
To be brilliant writers,
Cramping at half-hour intervals,
But never breaking from the rhythm
Of pencil scratching along parchment.
These hands have worked hard
To be expert artists,
Covered in paint
That took weeks to wash away.
All this,
These hands have worked so hard for,
So why are they looked upon
With such disgust
Instead of their creations,
Listened to with passion,
Read with insight,
Examined thoughtfully?
These hands
Have never striven to be beautiful,
Only worked hard
To be mocked,
Trashed for their appearances,
Instead of admired or critiqued
On what they gave up their beauty for.


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