Why do so many artists struggle?

To construct and create an object most everyone shares.

Ten gripping wires covered in rushing heat and confining covers.

Tipped with protective shields ready for dirt or glittering paint.

Typical. Regular. Mundane.


Or is it the way no one is similar?

Each map dipping with crevices no topographer will see the same.

Every warped knuckle tilted another angle, a lilted voice.

Ending in veins and sensitive spots.

Elevating the burn or the coolness of a touch.

Excited by the connection of another self mutated by dusk.

2 thoughts on “Hands

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