I only have two hands and so every day
I have to decide what I can carry.
Regret is a waste of a hand, and so is anger.
One hand is almost always reserved
for hope.
The other holds tight to you.
Sometimes, I wish I had more hands to hold everything
The dreams I chase and the fears I hide.
But with what I have, I choose carefully
To lift what lifts me,
And to let go of what drags me down.
And in the quiet moments,
I realize these two hands are enough to build a life,
Enough to hold love, enough to let go,
Enough to carry what truly matters.