Why?
These Hands
i wear the customary clothes of my time,like jesus did, with no reason not to diefacing history, with little to no ironylike i'm some forgotten southern city, sherman razedstill hid under thick smoke after all these yearsthese hands, are my father's hands but smallersoaked in paint thinner,until they're so dry coming together,they make the sound of resisting each othera shrill squeal like two moving rubber, tires touchinghide nothing, hide nothing
From Letras Mania