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The Hand That Feeds
As I bit into the soft skin
Of the hand that once fed me,
My teeth begin to hurt,
As if that hand had turned to stone.
I released my fierce bite,
As if to see what I had done,
Only to stare back at the hand,
With no damage done to it.
Most of my efforts to damage it
Have been fruitless.
For after every attack,
Every every insult,
Every rude comment,
Does not seem to effect the hand.
In the end,
None of it matters,
For the hand continues to nurture me.
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