If one day you break, too tired to cope,
And search the dark for hands of hope
Don’t reach for theirs, they come and go,
With fleeting warmth and faces you don’t know.

Just lift your left and find your right,
The one that’s stayed through every fight.
Your other hand, scarred, quiet, true
Has carried all that life gave you.

It wiped your tears when no one cared,
It held your chest when pain was bared.
No vow, no oath, no distant friend
Can match the grip it dares to lend.

So fold your fingers, let them bind,
And trust the touch you always find.
For storms may rage and trials descend
But none defeat the hand you lend.

The world breaks many, but never the one
Who learns to stand with hands of one.

Miles of Grit

Before the dawn, I rise and ride,
Legs like stone, lungs stretched wide.
Gravel roads become my prayer,
Spinning through pain, gasping air.

Unbound waits—one hundred miles,
Through Kansas dust and brutal trials.
Each climb I face, each breath I take,
Is built on choices others break.

I’ve trained through storms, through aching bone,
Pushed past the doubt when I felt alone.
Skipped birthdays, dinners, bedtime songs—
Chasing this dream for far too long.

But guilt, it rides my back some days,
When pedals steal the time that stays.
My family waits while I chase more,
Yet still they meet me at the door.

And then—the race.
Heat and grit beneath the sky,
Mile after mile, I wonder why.
Cramped legs scream, the wind cuts deep,
I think of every night I lost sleep.

But near the end—I see them there,
My son,  my love, their arms in air.
Cheering loud with muddy pride,
As tears break loose I’ve tried to hide.

This isn’t just about the ride.
It’s every moment I almost cried.
It’s every hill, each stubborn scar,
And all the hearts who brought me far.

The finish line—just gravel and paint,
But it holds the weight of what I ain’t:
A quitter. A shadow. A halfway flame—
No. I burned through every claim.

Proud not just of what I did,
But of the ones who let me live
This wild, relentless, arduous dream—
Together stronger. A family team.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

Everything happens the way that it should

[sometimes you just have to wait a bit to see,
but even bad can be good
if you give it room to breathe.
There's nowhere to look but directly at it,
and to face what's come be.]

It could not have happened any other way, because it happened the way that it did.

{You are who you are - and you did what you did - and you're the only place you can be; this the only life you live. There is no other you to compare yourself too. They are a figment. They do not exist.}

So you are where you are until you change something, kid. It is what it is. You get what you get, and you get what you give. 

(You want it different? Do it differently; otherwise, take it all for what it is: and either change what you need to change, or quit your ******* and settle in. There's Nothing to do about what you did. The choices made are set in stone, forgive yourself and start to dig.)

"Wisdom doesn't come easy,
So when someone tells you something you better listen.
Pay some attention to the wise men,
Even if they don't seem the wisest.
Listen here son,
Sometimes good men do bad things.
So they can protect the ones they love,
God is forgiving, he understands.
Sometimes you gotta get your hands *****,
To keep someone else's clean."

You are a Precious Pearl
A pear begins with a bit of Grit
Forged with the refining fires
Of passion persistence and pressure
It is a gift, a treasure beyond measure
The more costly for its journey
Through the crucible of life

When persistence and passion unite
When done in the presence of God's Light
You will bring to the table what some call Grit
With confidence you can say to life: "Bring It"
You have just become an Overcomer
Moving in the grace of God's own drummer

I met him at a dust-bowl bus station
In Mobile, where buses wore dust trail capes.
Roaches clicked in the water fountain basin.

With charisma he denounced
The muddled spray of birth and spring,
The spermy apocalypse brought forth by an
Army of mad babies with syphilis-splintered brains.

He had gambled for three nights,
Wonder and reason backing his chips —
Small blind, big blind.
He had the shoulders of a man who locks the door
And hides the key — an invisible traveling carnival
Trailed his gait on a pace-worn floor.

Bed bugs had made Braille of his arm.
He was going off to a camp south of Cabbage Town
Where he would sweat beneath the sun,
Surrender beneath the stars,
And dream of the ten women he’d made.

He told me he hated knowing he was in control,
And that it was the saddest part of the darkest hour.