His hands are distinct Rough, calloused, and torn Smudged and stained black The results of labor born No matter how much he washed His hands never looked clean Only when he wasn’t working Did the stains seem to vanish But his stained hands worked hard Providing for his family And his hands were often folded Praying and leading out in church They were hands I trusted Believed in Relied on And found comfort in But those stains on his hands That dark blemish on his outward appearance Reflect something deep in his heart Warning of the darkness and evil within Those hands I trusted Were filled with deceit Those hands I believed in Were used for vile deeds Those hand I relied on Were relishing in corruption Those hands I found comfort in Were those of a despicable predator How could those hands The hands of one I loved Be used to hurt and harm Others close to me The betrayal is total Those hands I will see no more My family is too important To allow those dirty hands to come close
About The Author
A feral house father who aspires to be a writer. I draw inspiration from my traumas, my experiences as a DJ and a teacher. I focus on poetry and short stories.
The Alchemist’s Cabin was built for moments like this—when a piece of writing asks you to pause, breathe, and feel something true. We gather work made with patience and care, and we make room for voices that refuse to be rushed. If you felt at home here, you’re always welcome to return.
Thank you for being here 🖤






Very nice.
What a piece, just when you feel at home you tear apart truly feeling the heartache and pain.😞💔