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Puny Penguin Jul 2020
They warned me to watch for my hands because
I might cut them picking up the broken pieces of others.
They warned me to watch for my eyes because
after seeing their problems my sight would lose all it’s colours.

I believed good people were like candles
as they’d burn themselves out to give others light
I believed good people were like the dark of the night
as they'd be there to help the stars shine bright

My hands may be criss crossed with cuts and scars,
my eyesight dim, and in need of glasses
my body may be patched and riddled with burn marks
and I may have fallen into the depths of darkness

So often I believed that no one was there to help the helper

It was hard, and the map of 3rd degree burns and nicks
are a testament to my journey, my daily crucifix
But I think I’ve found the balance, the fine fine line
between madness and sanity. Between helping others and myself

I’ve learnt to shine brightly for others
like the moon, both light and dark
whilst not setting myself on fire
and still allowing others to shine stark

My eyes still see the wonder in the world,
my hands still craft joy, still tinker with happiness.
To you my friend, if you're anything like me,
know it's all worth it, and you will be helped, you will be found.
It's all a matter of perspective. It's also ok to reach out.
Julie Grenness Sep 2019
Yes,  I was born a helper, the Elf,
Though thanks were left on the shelf,
Buddy the Elf is no fighter,
Smiling in peace makes us lighter,
Helpers find solutions, you see,
I am nice to people so nasty,
All I can say is, "Good for me!"
Feedback welcome.
Liz Carlson Mar 2019
she tries so hard to please others
when all that matters in the end
is that she pleases her Heavenly Father
and brings glory to His name
all else will fall away
InfranGilis Jun 2018
Never have I seen one as generous,
Nor one so abandoned as you in your darkest hours,

Never seen someone as noble as you,
Oh helper and hope of the lonely,
Where are you?

Where has your Light gone?

The sparks through which you guided us all,
The light that tore away the dark of our souls,

Your supreme sacrifices to which now I long,

My heart belongs only to you,
You taught me love and duty,

Then persisted that I remain humble,
One so pure, without, I could never be whole.
Wrote this last night just before dawn. Hope you like it.
Ilunga Mutombo Sep 2017
Knowing that it was my shoulder she cried on
Made me fall deeper in love with her
She trusted me with her pain and sorrow
I'm no savior, but for this one moment

I'm glad I'm here for her...
Madeline Kennell Jan 2017
step right up to this broken machine
she'll take anyone
look at this queen
she's shiny and new with smiles so bright
every step she takes is light
her colours are more than a rainbow can boast
she has more than any
she has the most
they drift in the wind and fall from her fingers
her joy is infectious
she's contentment's dead ringer

this machine never stops
that's why its so popular
people will travel far
there is no other
none so dedicated to her job as this
she's a volunteer so surely she loves it
but a crisis strikes every once in a while
the machine won't admit it, she's in denial
but her colour store is personally supplied
if she told you it's abundant, surely she lied

this machine has colours she enjoys sparing
but to spend her whole life as this machine is daring
machines must be turned off
must be unplugged
this machine never does because help is her drug
she goes and she goes until she overheats
her colours start melting
they run through the streets
these runaway colours are scooped up and scrounged
meanwhile the machine is left on the ground
she rusts while it rains, there on the ground

no regard for the girl whose rainbow
seems to be gone
look how she lays so
curled up and crying but not from her loss
crying because her aid is the cost
with no regard for herself she whispers
"if I take a break, look at who suffers"
but the rainbow too must be regrown
it can only take time and care and sweet tones
encouraging words to let her know
she's not alone, she will never be thrown
from this world with contempt
because love exists
but love may not always come to you free
sometimes there is just one fee
it isn't much... just to ask
JjJ98 Dec 2016
To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence.
Disavowed from senses
of contingent dependence.

Disallowed from connection
in simplest of form,
the necessary are
to be dead and too born.

Existing in realm
of support for all else,
with no reason at all
in helping themselves.

To be necessary is
to have purpose in essence;
contingency aiding
with iris virescent.
Mikoarenas Nov 2015
I have read the poem you wrote for me late at night hundreds of times.
I read it when my mind is constantly doubting itself.
I read it when my eye sockets are continuously flowing waterfalls and I've been drained of my confidence.
I read it when I need it.

You see those little poetic words created by a beautiful mind are my reminders that I'm strong.
That this life is not as bad as it seems.
That I have what it takes.

When looking into your eyes I see a healer.
Somebody who fixes wounds with words.
A kid at heart who fixes minds with short phrases because he is to scared to encounter his own.
A healer who needs healing.

I'd like to thank you.
For creating a boost of confidence for me.
A beautiful piece of art that'll live in my head for years to come.
Something I can go back to without worrying it'll be gone when I get there.

I hope you find someone who can give you what you gave me.
Because I believe you need it too.
A boost of confidence that'll never fade.
A 3AM poem
Poetic T Oct 2015
Hail the  hobo King sitting  on his throne of
A stripped ford, engine no longer their
Dismantled  of all that was worth a dime.

His subjects bring offerings of dinner trash
Food, fresh from the dumpster. Given to
Those of ill health and malnourished need.

He sits in clothes matted with his trails of
The moments his feet have hit the pavement.
Of life not as others had the chance to live.

He wandered the land every concrete jungle
Knew him as the hobo King, no crown gestured
His head, only the word, the word of mouth.

Settling disputes of those in homes of cardboard
Of wood and used plastic sheeting sheltering from
Those who would do harm and the relentless cold.

He wonders the streets, knows the secrets of each
City of the unseen spaces where those whom roam
Now lay. The vulnerable have a guardian a keeper.

Ignorance of those who do not see that which in
Doorways sleep, of huddled masses under bridges
Buildings to keep dry and an uneasy sleep.

He is the hobo king a crown of matted hair he
Wears, always does he have time for those
Less fortunate because he is one with the street.
Tom McCubbin Sep 2015
What do I know about what has been taken from me?
It is dangerous any more at this age to sleep for very long,
as I may awake not even recognizing myself.

Some part of me leaves without my permission,
departs into its own journey each night--
perhaps into the stars.
What is left open in the empty space
where I have been ribbed and robbed?
It appears as a widening of flesh
that seems to resist closing,
a sacred wound from on high places,
carved with a determined and prosperous hand.

What returns to me?
How it arrives
is the same amount of mystery that was taken.

I see someone beside me,
outside of me,
who requests that we be added to each other--
a blend that only much deep sleep can provide.

This has come to me for help;
to help with what I once thought I needed
and for what I knew had been taken from me.
Now it is apart from me and stands beside me,
I awake with the pain of a blessed departure
that has stirred inside of me.
From Genesis 2: 20-22
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