Hands

                           The dirt under my nails has turned them black.
My nails begin to rot and fall.
Scratching at the bottom of the barrel has calloused my hands.
The nicotine fingers are pretty compared to this.
The lines of time outlined on my hand
seem to move with every passing year.
Sometimes they move like rivers overflowing but
they always return to the same place when the flood subsides.
My fractured wrists have let me down.
I can't pick up anything to help myself.
My hands betray my desires.  

Author's Note

New poem. Completely edited. Would love any feedback on my musings.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I like it. Your description was outstanding. I had to read again. Thank you.
Coyote

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

Succinct and vivid imagery. Hands are so telling. Tops or bottoms. Personally I am very much drawn to the outline of the veins on the tops of ones hands - the working hands - the writers hands - as you say often stained with nicotine. Enjoyable write.
Light,
Siddartha

[Tiffany]

Nice piece, it is like a snapshot into another persons reality. I like it. t.

[Angel Veselinov]

It is nice. I really liked it. Hope that your hands are OK. :) Very good rhyming and structure looking forward to the follow up :)