I have no strength left in my fingers
to weave and line words dancing to the music
played in my head. To let the rolling emotions
flow, like a steady river. Channeled,
and let me breathe.

Frailty overtakes these fingers
I overspent to curate and fix words, dragged them
all day, all week on tedious papers that require
formalities, as I try to feed myself
and the fare, a currency for survival.

My fingers have grown too weary
to converse and engage and enjoy the perks
of being human, for now they have replaced mouths
to bridge the gaps, often widening them,
more burdens piled for the articulate tips of our limbs.

Worn to the bone, these fingers falter
to pull the strings and set the wheels in motion.
The sparks ignited have dimmed or exploded,
left with the messes my incapable hands
have no strength to clean.

All I can do now is bitterly stare
at these fingers of mine,
overused and confused,
rusty and empty,
with resentment and anger, slowly budding.