There is an imprint on everyone's life

And most are made by hands.

Hands that feed you

Hands that bathe you

Hands that caress you

Hands that build houses to shelter you.

But what happens when those hands

Are no longer used to protect you?

Those calloused, but soft, hands

That would once assure you that

Everything would be alright

Turn into hands that had a

Mind of their own.

Those calloused hands that were

Once angels whose intentions were

To coddle you, to protect you,

Turn into hands with devious intent.

No longer do they hold the Divine

Power that would make you feel at home.

They turn home into a twisted form of vertigo,

One that you can't escape.

Those hands hold onto brown bottles

With a grip mightier than Hercules

No longer do they hold onto you

With a soft embrace

No longer do you see those hands lace fingers

With your mother.

No, those hands turn into fists and

Those fists are used against you

Those hands touch you in places that you

haven't even figured out yet.

And all because your own hands are

Too small to clench

Because your imprints have yet to come.

Your hands are as soft as a baby's bottom

And they used to fit perfectly with those

Calloused but soft hands

But there are no room for your

hands when those calloused

But soft hands are holding bottles

Like they used to hold you.

So you learn that every time

Someone shows you their hands

You believe that they are

To be used against you.

Those hands had an affect,

And now a simple raised fist

Can make your whole body shake.

If you can't raise your hands

Then how can you make your own imprints?

Dear child, there was one thing to know;

You were supposed to hold

The world in your hands,

But now it feels like the

World has crushed you with theirs.