I Never Learned to Touch (poem) by Michael S. True on AuthorsDen

I Never Learned to Touch
by Michael S. True → (All Poetry by Michael S. True)
Rated "PG" by the Author.

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I was told that Beautiful things Can be broken! Open palms, Extended fingers, These, I came to know As weapons. Better sheathed Than allowed to strike, To batter the body, To beat the ego. You can�t imagine How often my thoughts reflected This fearful state of mind. When that first mirror Fell to the floor Shattered, A kaleidoscope of Humpty Dumptys Stared back at me And I came to understand That Seven upon seven years of bad luck Was my reality, Especially Given The fact That there, in that place, my fate, Like that mirror, Was in Someone else�s Hands. Hands, Hands that Hit hard Hands that Pushed me away Hands that Slammed doors Hands that Shook me awake Threatened me in nightmares Signaled another round of silent desperation; All hope of salvation Just beyond my feeble grasp. And no, I dared not strike a blow. There would be no Reasonable retaliation, Taught oh, so well To turn the other cheek. How was I to know That they would come To feed on this insipid weakness, This pacific invention? Oh, idle hands, The Devil�s playground! What chaos lies in this arrangement? And to stir things up To add to my concerns I was told That Dirty hands Can spread disease Dirty hands can carry germs They find their way to Dirty things Dirty Dirty Dirty Things Nasty things Go on, boy, Wash those hands And don�t come back until they�re clean! My fingertips Eventually Curled themselves Into tight fists, Hands stuffed into Empty pockets. Never meant to reach or touch. Never meant to embrace. Never meant To softly stroke This multi-textured world. And this would be my fate. It seems that I have Always been Standing At arms length, Disconnected From almost everything. My hands shake Whenever I attempt To touch you. Anticipation Turns to fear. How can these Horrid tentacles Be expected to Explore your cheeks, your breasts, To feel the tenderness Of silky skin, Your supple arms, your sculpted legs? For such a purpose They remain Untrained, Clumsy, Fidgeting digits. They are, Without a doubt, Useless To the both of us. In retrospect, Life came packed in a locked wooden box. The dreams inside, like these hands of mine, Remain unopened. Michael S. True 2-29-07 last edit 10-13-13 �

Reviewed by Regis Auffray

Reviewed on October 20, 2013

A soul-grasping account and sharing, Michael. Your words stir emotions and provoke thoughts. Love and peace,

Regis

Reviewed by RWE SAYS BYE (Reader)

Some people have the Midas touch, and anything they put their hand to turns to gold, but in this sensitive deft poem, not so much... a poignant parable is herein told... you've assembled an advocacy against abuse, an adroitness, an adeptness, an aptness at best... and this slim and slender vessel of verse puts a catch in the throat, a lump that emotional baggage augments and enhances... expertly penned, my friend.

Roger

Reviewed by Ronald Hull

Reviewed on October 18, 2013

True to your name, without a disclaimer, this horrific account appears to be true. From it comes one of the most insightful people I know. Why anyone has to be subjected to this, I don't know.

Ron

Reviewed by John Bidwell

Stunning descriptions of brutality.
The human potential for well being too often lies beyond the grasp of too many- and tragic when it is parents with such mental depravity.
We must always seek that part of us that is able to learn, and take it by the hand allowing the way to clear.
John

Reviewed by Odin odin@aflx.com

Reviewed on October 17, 2013

Such are the clasped hands of safety, of survival, of peace. Yes, when all is said and done, the person you choose to present in first person is many more people than the person. So goes the narcissism of our society.

Reviewed by Lark Pogue

Because rejection on top of rejection is just not worth the risk. Sad for us with this reality. I just cannot say more about this reality known to some of us.
L