My hands are art
In creating the image of life.
My plain palms are the canvas
For what may become.
Never know how
The creation will turn out.
My bruised calluses are the sculpture
Of my body.
Show pain for every crevice.
My clinched fist is the sketch
Of loose anger and sadness.
Feeling pain is painting in black.
Touching the world is my beauty.
My beauty is my hand.
And the painting of my face.

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