Someone's story

Sometimes I find
That my hands are not mine
They pick up and put down
They drag me around

They pick up the drink
And then set caution down
They pick up the keys
And then drive me around

Sometimes I find
That my will is not mine
It takes me to places
My sober mind can't find

It sits up and yells
Like a wound festering now
The blood it is poisoned
With all my let downs

Sometimes I find
That my hands are not mine
They pick up the razor
Then slash small red lines

Thinking back on
My old ruminations
From 20 years ago
But I am still not yet shaken

Sometimes I find
That my hands are still mine
The tuck in my children
And then lay down at night.