My Palms

My palms are too soft

Too white.

Eighteen years into life

Yet they are like a newborn child’s,

Devoid of any callouses

No marks, no creases

Save the life line and such.

Haven’t I toiled?

Am I a stranger to life’s pain?

I know I ain’t.

I have worked,

Racked up my brain,

I have cried too many tears.

Yet my palms are too smooth,

Too happy to be mine.



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