Hands grotesque I say, the hands that cling to the withering spirit. A weathered hand lined like the maps of age centered in a tree. Round and round my skin clings to brittle bones that drive a pen across paper anxiously. These hands. These hands make me scream in agony, why don’t you do what your meant to do. Will my dreams die off cause you can’t hold the spirit I need you to. Please. I cannot bare the tragedy of your aches and pains as my mind creates cities of ambition. Were you not there with me through my first words, my first poems, my first love letters tossed to rusted trash cans? Be with me i beg you, do not let your grotesque internal ruin the production of my dreams, and and my voice. Please. I need you to keep my insanity on paper and not within me.