Shovel hand

Velociraptor hand
Bent, taut, jerky responses.
Nails shovel and mark
Skin, sheets, book pages.

From Place of Rest to Torture Table

Torture Bed

Horizontally laying
Pins and needles
Repeated stabbing
Squirming avoidance
Fist, the catalyst
Hovering between
Firm mattress
Spastic back
A touch
Not enough
Digging fingers
Inward pushing
Submission achieved
Back to stretching;
Daily existence.

There’s movement in here

This is a poem that gets a little gritty. It is a poem that challenges some people’s view that unless you are normal there isn’t much you can do. Those are the ignorant people; if blind people can get jobs than why can’t those like me do things that they like. Oh, I know; having a hobby like playing the guitar or drawing and having a job are two different things. But are they really? The only difference I see is with one you get paid and with the other….well, you don’t.

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