it's in the hands

my hands often crave to write
but it isn't the writer's itch
nor the poet's delight
they just want to scribble words of thought.

as ink spills, my tears fall;
emotions become words and words emotions.
and if to cry out loud fails
then to shout through my pen should work.

everything my hands do bring me nearer my grave
and indeed my feet carry me to different places,
yet no farfetch'd journey there is
than to write a thousand words.

the hands write
and the heart speaks;
but what is in the hands that make it
the perpetuator of my sorrows and dreams?