My right hand’s been broken,

And not the way you think,

But like a horse trained to give in

To the bit, the bridle, the reign.

I can’t always write with it

And say exactly what I feel.

A voice inside tends to chide me

For not crossing T’s and dotting i’s.

So when I feel stumped,

I put the crayon in my non-dominant hand.

My left hand will say anything, 

But only if it’s true.

My left hand has never had 

A ruler brought down across its knuckles.

It’s untrained, unlearned,

And yet I value

The things it knows,

The things it shows me about myself.

My left hand is whole, unharmed,

Unconfirmed, un-conformed to this world.

It comes without knowledge of sin

Boldly to Nirvana,

As any loving curious child,

And is allowed to come in

And go about freely.

I am happy to hear my left hand talk.

It cures my right hand

And my right brain,

And scribbles over any writer’s block 

Or half-assed truths Ive tried to type up.

It covers the page with vibrant living colors

Of creativity and wonder.

You can do it, too,

And see for yourself how fun it is.

-jenn