What Is That Hand?

It's like a hand

Reaching inside your skull,

Slowly– ruthlessly– crushing your brain.

Your head throbs,

Over and over, with each bit of

Pressure added to your head and mind.

Thump... thump... thump...

And it doesn't get better.

But what is that hand?

Is it fear?

Is it reality?

Is it some unavoidable consequences to some terrible thing you did ten years ago?

Is it just plain paranoia over absolutely nothing?

What is that hand?

It's like a hand

Reaching into your chest,

Pain-stakingly tearing your heart

Apart,

Piece by piece.

You still see each piece

Expand... contract... expand... contract...

As if it were attached to the whole.

What is that hand?

Is it doubt?

Is it fear?

Is it lost love or a broken heart?

Is it just a kind soul turning, little by little, into a rotten attitude?

What is that hand?

It's like a hand

Reaching in and taking your

Most sensitive parts.

No choice– no voice– no way you can

Decide for yourself

Whether you want one thing,

Or another.

And in the background of your mind

You hear a muffled cry

Of the thing you once wanted.

Waaaaah! Waaaaah!

But it's just that– in your head.

I know what this hand is now.

It's fear and doubt all rolled in one,

A society that's afraid of a woman and all

She can do for the world.

I'm no feminist,

But I can tell you I'm sick of being the less favored

For the things I want in my life.

I'm sick of being told to sit and look pretty

While my work is done for me.

I am just as capable as any man

Of any thing I set my mind to.

That hand is reality, is paranoia, is a consequence of simply being

A woman.

So tell me again,

What is that hand?