I love the ones who suffer
The ones who walk bent over
under the weight
of some old, sad burden
The ones with gold
hidden in the creases of their eyes
whose hands are worn out
whose feet are scraped raw
whose hearts are rawer still
The ones who love one‑sided
who heal badly
who blush with shame
who scream from fear
or from pleasure
who are eaten away by pain
who strip themselves bare
who tear at their own hair
who hurt their own bodies
who lose their teeth
who hate the mirror
who are thirsty
whose stomachs are empty
who stutter
who no one seems to understand
The ones who cry
the ones who laugh too loud
the ones who lose the thread
the ones who never found it again
the ones who forget themselves
the ones who open themselves
the ones reading in a crowd
the ones watching everything
the ones painting out in the open air
the ones carrying too much food
the ones gathering flowers
the ones performing in the street
the ones whose talent isn’t recognized
the ones who don’t give up
the ones who beg in silence
The ones we call
the poor
the drunks
the homeless
the crazies
the cracked
the mad
the dispossessed
the immigrants
the forgotten
the minorities
the oppressed
the ones pressed flat by society
The unlucky are my heroes
The traumatized are my heroes
The grieving are my heroes
People who have lost speech are my heroes.
Disabled people are my heroes
People who use drugs are my heroes
People living with depression are my heroes.
People living with mental illness are my heroes.
People who died by suicide are my herons
Survivors are my heroes
Autistic people are my heroes
All the “dys-” are my heroes
People living on welfare are my heroes
The exhausted are my heroes
The part‑time participants in life are my heroes
Artists who are broke are my heroes
Writers who feel like failures are my heroes
Poets who still refuse to break are my heroes
While I indulge in some intellectual ************ on Hello Poetry
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 12:12 PM UTC
I love the ones who suffer
The ones who walk bent over
under the weight
of some old, sad burden
The ones with gold
hidden in the creases of their eyes
whose hands are worn out
whose feet are scraped raw
whose hearts are rawer still
The ones who love one‑sided
who heal badly
who blush with shame
who scream from fear
or from pleasure
who are eaten away by pain
who strip themselves bare
who tear at their own hair
who hurt their own bodies
who lose their teeth
who hate the mirror
who are thirsty
whose stomachs are empty
who stutter
who no one seems to understand
The ones who cry
the ones who laugh too loud
the ones who lose the thread
the ones who never found it again
the ones who forget themselves
the ones who open themselves
the ones reading in a crowd
the ones watching everything
the ones painting out in the open air
the ones carrying too much food
the ones gathering flowers
the ones performing in the street
the ones whose talent isn’t recognized
the ones who don’t give up
the ones who beg in silence
The ones we call
the poor
the drunks
the homeless
the crazies
the cracked
the mad
the dispossessed
the immigrants
the forgotten
the minorities
the oppressed
the ones pressed flat by society
The unlucky are my heroes
The traumatized are my heroes
The grieving are my heroes
People who have lost speech are my heroes.
Disabled people are my heroes
People who use drugs are my heroes
People living with depression are my heroes.
People living with mental illness are my heroes.
People who died by suicide are my herons
Survivors are my heroes
Autistic people are my heroes
All the “dys-” are my heroes
People living on welfare are my heroes
The exhausted are my heroes
The part‑time participants in life are my heroes
Artists who are broke are my heroes
Writers who feel like failures are my heroes
Poets who still refuse to break are my heroes
While I indulge in some intellectual ************ on Hello Poetry
