An Artists Hands

My hands look like an artists hands.

Like they've been marinating in a draw full of old pencil shavings and dried paint.

Filled with surprise colour spectrums and dimly lit crannies of lead.

Used, dirty, fingernails and rough splotches,

stain the tops of my hands.

I'm growing fond of my body's masterpiece.

Yet if I was to wash the canvas clean,

I can pretend that the setbacks, knockbacks and drawbacks

of an artist will not become me.

And still

the draw beckons

and elicits a response far stronger,

than the clean backs of my hands and fingernails

could ever satisfy.