Hands that grasp
Are rarely full.Always wanting moreYet never making room,Forcing their way to the frontYet somehow still falling behind,Demanding to be heardWhile taking for granted those who listen.Yes, hands that graspAre never full,Because good things easily slipOut of wrongful handsEither by fateOr by simply not being the kind of personWho can handleGood thingsWhen they come.
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