Never mind the stains that mark my hands because they will fade away,
Never mind the bruises that mark my hands because they will be replaced,
By something that my mind will always remember as I lay,
As I stroke up and down and around my face.
I always wondered how to hands were connected to the brain,
The ways it made me different and make other people stare,
But I never once regret how it taught me to stay sane,
Without these hands how would I express, how would I dare?
Without the speed of my pencil and the stroke of a brush,
How will anything be finished instead of let, untouched?
The sitting, standing, walking, and talking,
Is nothing compared than I fingers I use to help me keep rocking.
We take no seriousness, to the art,
To the pain, that leaves marks.
We only enjoy what little,
The time it takes to fiddle.