My Calloused Hands

The skin on my hands burns,
wiping away paint that clings so desperately.
Should these hands be calloused?
Will that bind my case ?

Must I wash them clean,
never to hold a brush again?
Pick up a tool,
not for creation, but destruction?

I could take a pen –
not for poetry,
but for something useful,
something practical.

Will you listen then?
If I fight fire with fire,
if I speak not to speak, but to prove –
Will you take my side?

Must I climb that ladder,
beat you to the top?
Throw away passion,
replace it with power?

Must I be a man?

If that is what it takes to move you,
then you were never moveable.

If my words are senseless,
if my hands are too soft –
I’ll take it.

I’ll colour outside the lines,
cover all of you,

until your eyes blur into your nose,
until the skin on your hands burns too.