My Hand

My Hand

When my hand picks up the pen
Lyrical words and prose begin
It sings of things past and things to come
It starts with a preposition, noun or even a verb
Then come the rhythm together with hand’s words
Words like notes from Coltrane’s horn
One after another, syllables flow until a song is born
I can hear the sound of its melody in my dreams
At my awakening my hand is geeked.
On ten and anxious
Got a mind of its own
Unrestrained artistic movements
That goes on and on and on
It calls to my brain ”Feed me more words”
“Feed me more rhymes”
Hand with its pen responds
All day sometimes
Damn hand! You kind of out of control!
But the more hand writes, the more she soothes the soul
Hand knows just what she’s doing
When she picks a pen
Cause no matter what, she will create
Whatever the inspiration is,
Whether its love, politics or the gulliest of sex,
When hand picks up her pen,
Who knows what’s next.
So hand has been given an eternal mandate
Write Delicious words to bring ecstasy to your ears,
For years and years, and years and years.