Hands of stone, cracked and weeping, the only peace I get is when I am sleeping.
Cold and hard, ash grey, the torture pecks and stings all day.
What have I touched, I must remember, to cleanse and clean or face the temper.
Crucifix hands lay in wait, ready for the nail to stab and penetrate.
With a smash of the hammer, and slash of the whip, I see my hands open, tear and rip.
And on the crucifix I lay, unable to move, frozen with fear against the wood, Id do it myself, id end it all if I could. To hell being attached to this pain, to this wood.
Take a knife, cut them off, Ill do it myself or hang aloft.
Put the gun to my head, and make my eyes see only red, Its not worth it, id be better off dead.
Ill offer my hands on the block, or smash my head against that idyll rock.
All day long from morning till night, my hands are the source of my wretched plight.
A constant wasp sting, dirty needle, razor blade or sand paper evil.
Paper cuts all day long, leave me waiting for that silent nights song.
Blocks of ice, that follow me round, for all my days, locked and bound.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.