Moving Hands~

The limbs of depression massage depths of my subconsciousness. So far that realization of the very effect has been overlooked by the implanted happiness. Not just any happiness, but the kind that was fertilized with the water of a well that never runs dry. The depressive weeds grow fingernails that scratch the surface of my very being that perhaps the blood from my pierced flesh would paint the roses red. Not as nearly as red as my cheeks were on that day i heard those words. Harmful words. Deadly words. With each hurtful fungus growth, today, the gasoline of my power and the match of my intelligence has set aflame every negative growth. Letting no man put asunder the work that has been established. Addressing my falls wound from a limb I grow weary and bland. As though my years of living had tripled. Very much so does the movement of hands effect me..."Tick Tock" the hands say. "Ouch" is my response with every passing second I allow they allow me to predict my steps.