Hands, hands, hands. everyone has a pair. So simple and complex, are everyone’s hands. All look the same, at the end of your arm, on your wrist. All have five fingers, one of them a thumb. But it’s amazing what you can tell, about a person by their hands. Some are tough and tanned, and some are small and thin. Some have long fingers, elegant like a pianists. While other’s are short and stubby, made for sitting at a desk all day. My hands are long and bony, thin like an old woman’s. They have lots of little scars, and lots of little scratches, from climbing up trees and trails alike. They are the hands of a writer, who had too many thoughts, and too little time, to learn how to write properly. Because of this there has always been, a callus on my ring finger. They are the hands of a reader, with a slightly flattened thumb, from holding the page of a masterpiece, in it’s proper place. They are the hands of a violinist, the skin is thickened on the tips of the fingers on my left hand. They are the hands of a person. But the hands of only one, out of billions of hands who could have written this poem, I ask myself, “Why were mine to do the task? Why are some judged by color? Or looks? Or accent? Or language? Or interests? Or fashion? Or age? Or anything else so superficial? The world doesn’t need perfection. Perfection means all the same. The world needs every person. The world needs every flaw.”
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