So tattered and broken yet strong in their grip, these hands are more than they seem. Every day is anew to prove their worth, yet there are no judges… No contest… Just me.

I am my own man… A worker, lover, and fighter. Chasing dreams that stroll with his pursuit of happiness that flirts with the notion that I am nothing without passion and drive. I’m nothing without these hands.

Protectors in failures and falls they shield me from danger. Creators of crafted labor, so callused and weary from filling fathers’ boots… His hands looked were a lot like mine. Firm in their grip confirming loyalty and respect. Gentle to cradle the love at home.

Both tools and teachers. They move in commandment from the mind in order to teach the heart. Burned. Beaten. Scarred. Forever professing that all things will heal in time. Between love and desire they linger in all those sweet places the heart can only visits in dreams.

As builders, fighters, and mighty conquerors, they brave the storm day in and day out. I can never neglect or repay my debts to the hands that make this man whole.

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