Hands That Wait
You carry weight with silent pride,
A storm you never let outside.
I see it press against your spine,
But every offer, you decline.
“I’m fine,” you say, with furrowed brow,
As if that’s all you will allow.
You wear the world like armor tight,
Then wonder why you lose the fight.
I reach for you with open hands,
But you’ve built walls from shifting sands.
I see you drown and will not swim,
Afraid that help admits you’re dim.
But strength is not a solo act,
It’s in the pause, the soft impact
Of letting someone in the dark
Hold even just the smallest part.
You mow the grass, the dog, the day—
But not the cracks that won’t obey.
And I can’t fix what you won’t share,
Can’t love the weight if you’re not there.
I’m here, still here, with hands outstretched,
My care not soft, not vague, not fetched.
But love can’t break through what you cage—
And silence slowly turns to rage.
So tell me where the hurt begins.
Let me help you hold the pins.
We lose the fight when we don’t see—
That even strong hearts bend to breathe.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
