dirty hands

for the prompt of Weekend wordsmith ’s Dirty Hands

my hands are tied…
but that doesn’t bother me much…
i am worried about the dirt
that’s been printed
and has been with me
all my waking life.

city of angels
in one hell of a crowd,
stern look,
harsh words…
making me believe that
what I’ve done
was one such favor…

i know I’m not gonna do it
but the smell of blood,
the voices of fear,
the suffering in their eyes,
has been tattoed on my hands.

must i ask for forgiveness
to all the life that’s
been inside me?
must i seek sanctuary
for all the broken hearts?

how could i ever
wash these hands,
when i am very much aware
of all the little painful
things i have done?