Today was the final session of my
creative writing course, and, to cap what was a successful venture
that I'm finding it hard to walk away from, I'd like to post one last
piece I wrote for class. Originally, I was going to post a piece
that I notice I've posted before (not even double digit posts in and
I'm already wanting to repost stuff), but I'm going with my favorite
free write trigger response.
This piece was written as a stream of
consciousness, but I adapted it to a free-verse poem format when I
submitted it for our class anthology. Not sure if I feel it added
anything to piece or if I just wanted it to not look like a chunk of
text on a page. My guess is the latter.
My Hands
My hands are rough,
unless liberally
moisturized.
My hands are
strong,
unless I'm grasping
for my dreams.
These things are
true,
but will they
always be true.
Will these hands of
mine,
which now scribble
on this page,
always fail me?
It's not fair to
characterize these hands,
which build
and make
and do,
as the parts of me
that leave me
dangling.
If my hands could
have their say,
they might grab my
heart with vice-like intensity.
They would shake
and shake
my bewildered heart
until it beat,
truly beat,
with a desire, a
yearning.
They would drop
that beating, passionate heart and march onward.
Onward and upward,
until they laid
sight upon a motionless gray mass.
There, they would
beat upon that gray matter like a war drum,
announcing to the
brain and all its minions and lackeys that it is time to do.
Do the passions of
the heart
with a sharpness
and clarity
and focus
that hasn't yet
been achieved.
These hands of mine
would like to move
mountains.
I'm going to miss that class.
