These white knuckles tell a story.
They're proof of weakness and strength combined, years of holding back and sadness,
of dark tunnels that seem endless and dismal.
They're a result of repressed anger and confinement of expression and wounds that never heal.
The whiteness of these knuckles show fear and loneliness never spoken,
of quiet days where the murmur of night makes solitude look pale in comparison to ghastly thoughts that crush the mind,
of love withered or unattained,
of sorrows that fill rooms with inadequate frailty,
and of despair and search,
of wisdom in pain,
of narrow streets and empty pockets,
of a life that is unbecoming.
They speak of me,
they show my weariness,
and I,
I see these knuckles
and I see...beauty,
because they're not going to be white forever.
These hands will relax and the knuckles will soften, pinkish and supple to touch.
C.M. Hazel © 2015-2016
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Lucid Dreams, Vivid Realities
PoetryIn this sample collection of the words spoken, thought, gathered, and put together in a string of rhymes I like to call poetry, I have included a few pieces which have filled many pages of several notebooks over the years. Beware, some make sense an...
