Hands Poem by Falling Awake

Hands

A response to stress,
I'm a nervous mess,
And, I just don't know
what to do with my hands.

I'm awkward in charm,
Drink connects with palm,
But what do I do with my hands?

I pretend to inspect,
My nails I dissect,
Tell me, what do I do with my hands?

So, I stick them inside,
My jean pockets to hide,
It's something to do with my hands...

Movement to prevent,
This social stagnance,
And, I'll die if I don't find-
Just what do I do with my hands?

POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
A poem about my experience with social anxiety through the focus of my hands. What are we supposed to do with these things anyway?
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