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.