There was always love in daddy's hands, huh?
Okay Miss Yearwood, or whoever you were…
I'm not going to talk about my father. Or my stepfather.
I am going to talk about my Real Father.
He is insanely wealthy, like he owns everything.
He makes eggs, and little swimming lifeforms.
He's just sitting on the seventh day of rest…
It's been the seventh day for a long time.
So when I was born with two hands, He was overjoyed.
Except, He gave me a really big head.
A mind for matter, and if I was just a brain on a plate,
I would survive.
There is a certain detachment between me, and
The hands He gave me.
Talk talk talk do do do?
So I say into action these hands.
Must have a handiwork.
But wait I am His handiwork!
Oh please daddy will I be beautiful when I grow up?
What is beautiful to you Father?
My insides, or my outside… Or being able to work with my hands?
But, I talk with my hands! And I type with my hands.
And I never learned how to type with correct hand placement,
And somehow by memory I type as fast as I think and faster!
Hands are doing, handshake is greet and closure?
Hands wave goodbye and the middle one on a hand flies out the window!
Hands shake with nerves and get clammy,
What do my hands tell me about my future?
Really I need a manicure, if I am going to be a hand person?
You know that mysterious shift, where I stop being a brain person.
You know like totally when I become a strong independent female,
That can afford all the things mentioned in my last blog entitled typical morning bitch.
Then I will say to my Father...
Look God, are you not well pleased?
I am your prodigal daughter, and I am all plastic surgery to cover up the scars you taught me.
And because my son broke my nose, while we were playing… I'll leave him in your hands,
If I am ever to have lasers in my eyes, or the fat sucked off on me as if it were a fact of life.
Or if it was my non-temperance, that led me back.
I will tat all over my body that you gave me… I will go under the knife, for you Father.
I will take the lashings of your heart, and replace them with my crooked smile.
My crooked teeth, due banjos, and yet you make me beautiful inside. My dimples on my cheeks remind me I have bread on my counter, and I count myself blessed.
And my little secret is that I know what my physical form looks like on the other side, and what you show this side? I literally saw myself changing and my scars been removed!
What is that the coolest shit to hallucinate!
Wahoo all the fat girls, are skinny in heaven!
So back to being a hand person.
Of all the things I ask, let the work of my hands, be pleasing to you My Father.
Because I know of the day, and the night.
Set my hands to work, my feet too forward… And my mind to ease.
Okay Miss Yearwood, or whoever you were…
I'm not going to talk about my father. Or my stepfather.
I am going to talk about my Real Father.
He is insanely wealthy, like he owns everything.
He makes eggs, and little swimming lifeforms.
He's just sitting on the seventh day of rest…
It's been the seventh day for a long time.
So when I was born with two hands, He was overjoyed.
Except, He gave me a really big head.
A mind for matter, and if I was just a brain on a plate,
I would survive.
There is a certain detachment between me, and
The hands He gave me.
Talk talk talk do do do?
So I say into action these hands.
Must have a handiwork.
But wait I am His handiwork!
Oh please daddy will I be beautiful when I grow up?
What is beautiful to you Father?
My insides, or my outside… Or being able to work with my hands?
But, I talk with my hands! And I type with my hands.
And I never learned how to type with correct hand placement,
And somehow by memory I type as fast as I think and faster!
Hands are doing, handshake is greet and closure?
Hands wave goodbye and the middle one on a hand flies out the window!
Hands shake with nerves and get clammy,
What do my hands tell me about my future?
Really I need a manicure, if I am going to be a hand person?
You know that mysterious shift, where I stop being a brain person.
You know like totally when I become a strong independent female,
That can afford all the things mentioned in my last blog entitled typical morning bitch.
Then I will say to my Father...
Look God, are you not well pleased?
I am your prodigal daughter, and I am all plastic surgery to cover up the scars you taught me.
And because my son broke my nose, while we were playing… I'll leave him in your hands,
If I am ever to have lasers in my eyes, or the fat sucked off on me as if it were a fact of life.
Or if it was my non-temperance, that led me back.
I will tat all over my body that you gave me… I will go under the knife, for you Father.
I will take the lashings of your heart, and replace them with my crooked smile.
My crooked teeth, due banjos, and yet you make me beautiful inside. My dimples on my cheeks remind me I have bread on my counter, and I count myself blessed.
And my little secret is that I know what my physical form looks like on the other side, and what you show this side? I literally saw myself changing and my scars been removed!
What is that the coolest shit to hallucinate!
Wahoo all the fat girls, are skinny in heaven!
So back to being a hand person.
Of all the things I ask, let the work of my hands, be pleasing to you My Father.
Because I know of the day, and the night.
Set my hands to work, my feet too forward… And my mind to ease.