In These Hands

My hands are an opera of pain,
The cuts and nicks are many,
I search for some healthy skin,
And cannot find any.
It seems I'm not indestructible,
This catches me by surprise,
In my youth I was intolerant,
Those "complainers" I despised.
When they spoke of their soreness,
After a day's work,
I thought them merely "soft",
And a kind of jerk.
Now I understand their perspective,
After a few hard days,
I see that there's another world,
And learnt the error of my ways.