#arthritis - Hello Poetry

You're not as young as you used to be, stooped over with weak, and bad knees, your lower back is aching, there are pains everywhere, arthritis, aching joints, but Life has Been Fair, You can't move like you used to You are starting to slow down, You take your time now, Carefully moving yourself around You're fatigued, breathy and tired, You are out of breath indeed, You can't do it like you used to, Settling down is what you really need. Your bones are cracking, Your get up us gone People's move ahead of you As you are slowly pushing along Be careful what you do, and Please take your time, because, You're no spring chicken, Your youth has left you Behind!!! B.R. Date: 11/18/2025

0

Nov 18, 2025

Nov 18, 2025 at 1:58 PM UTC

msbellepoetry44

You're No Spring Chicken

You're not as young as you used to be, stooped over with weak, and bad knees, your lower back is aching, there are pains everywhere, arthritis, aching joints, but Life has Been Fair, You can't move like you used to You are starting to slow down, You take your time now, Carefully moving yourself around You're fatigued, breathy and tired, You are out of breath indeed, You can't do it like you used to, Settling down is what you really need. Your bones are cracking, Your get up us gone People's move ahead of you As you are slowly pushing along Be careful what you do, and Please take your time, because, You're no spring chicken, Your youth has left you Behind!!! B.R. Date: 11/18/2025

26

Bones brittle Breaking down Pain cursing Surging rounds No sense complaining When rain beats down Drumming skins Popping knee Grinding Aching Stiff trunked tree Take down pills Replace each bit Piece by piece Till the day The heart will quit.

0

Jan 27, 2025

Jan 27, 2025 at 4:50 PM UTC

christy-5

Brittle

Bones brittle Breaking down Pain cursing Surging rounds No sense complaining When rain beats down Drumming skins Popping knee Grinding Aching Stiff trunked tree Take down pills Replace each bit Piece by piece Till the day The heart will quit.

16

Early morning when I get up I am in a fight with the dark forces that inhabit my bones and haunt my mind. And I have a choice: heaven and life or the devil and death.

0

Jun 30, 2020

Jun 30, 2020 at 9:53 AM UTC

glenn-currier

Devil in the Bones

Early morning when I get up I am in a fight with the dark forces that inhabit my bones and haunt my mind. And I have a choice: heaven and life or the devil and death.

6

cool green leaves rustling hot red tin roof expanding- freedom of movement stiff arthritic limbs longing go - exercise caution - stop

0

Oct 23, 2019

Oct 23, 2019 at 6:49 PM UTC

poetry2go

Freedom of Movement

cool green leaves rustling hot red tin roof expanding- freedom of movement stiff arthritic limbs longing go - exercise caution - stop

5

Last night I noticed that I'm dropping things far too often. Papers. Keys. Small plastic toys. Even round lemons. So far nothing fragile or important but still this worries me. I'm thirty-seven: not young anymore but, also, I'm not old. My first thought was: am I forgetting to hold them tight? Perhaps, I'm not grabbing them right. I sat for a while diagnosing my own mental health. No. I am not becoming forgetful. I can reason fine. Relieved, I put my worries behind me and went to sleep. Darkness hurts my hands. When I close my eyes the pain starts. It shoves itself like a clattering elevator clawing its way up to my fingertips. Poundings and tensions and strains begin to disrupt my languid limbs. In my dream, my palms feel like lead: infinitely heavier than their normal weight. My fingers start curling in. But it's in my joints where the throbbing emanates. The discomfort becomes insufferable. It hurts to move my hands. My fists have turned into numb bricks. By now the pain has disrupted my sleep. I take my sore hands and place them on top of me as I turn my back and face the bed letting my hands soak the heat guarded between the sheets and my chest. This alleviates some of the pain. This is how I hope to get some rest. Though I'm fully aware that the pain in my hands will never really go away.

0

Jun 2, 2019

Jun 2, 2019 at 6:09 PM UTC

mundoamordidas

the pain in my hands

Last night I noticed that I'm dropping things far too often. Papers. Keys. Small plastic toys. Even round lemons. So far nothing fragile or important but still this worries me. I'm thirty-seven: not young anymore but, also, I'm not old. My first thought was: am I forgetting to hold them tight? Perhaps, I'm not grabbing them right. I sat for a while diagnosing my own mental health. No. I am not becoming forgetful. I can reason fine. Relieved, I put my worries behind me and went to sleep. Darkness hurts my hands. When I close my eyes the pain starts. It shoves itself like a clattering elevator clawing its way up to my fingertips. Poundings and tensions and strains begin to disrupt my languid limbs. In my dream, my palms feel like lead: infinitely heavier than their normal weight. My fingers start curling in. But it's in my joints where the throbbing emanates. The discomfort becomes insufferable. It hurts to move my hands. My fists have turned into numb bricks. By now the pain has disrupted my sleep. I take my sore hands and place them on top of me as I turn my back and face the bed letting my hands soak the heat guarded between the sheets and my chest. This alleviates some of the pain. This is how I hope to get some rest. Though I'm fully aware that the pain in my hands will never really go away.

39

I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.

0

Jul 7, 2017

Jul 7, 2017 at 4:53 AM UTC

anniecammie

to be without shell

I feel as if my head is sliding off my neck like ice cream melting down the cone. I am a witch melting, shrinking smaller as my spine stacks horizontally like shiplap. My body has been refurbished into a pinball machine. Something so tiny as a silver ball destroys so much. It bullets through my body, shooting off like Cuban missiles. I feel the turmoil and chaos seeping through the gutters of this old home of bones. It's like spilled oil sludging through my blood vessels or rats scattering through a sewer, nibbling and feasting away on these muscles of mine until they are frayed like gnawed-on cable wires. At odd hours of the night when time is propelled by the safe travels of breath (that weave in and out like Victorians at a ball) from sleepy children who have yet been touched by monsters or nymphs, whereas each of my breaths steer Odysseus's weather-beaten boat through ten years of treachery. My heavy, melting head slowly sloping like clay off a bust makes its home on my dingy pillow as I lay on a prison bed with cold shackles around my ankles that make my bones shatter into a mosaic as if that could shrink my ankles so I can slip out. I feel like a chained hawk at these hours of the night when I just want to fly until I screech to a halt and flail over the cliff that waterfalls into the ends of the universe. I'd be reluctant at first, perhaps, but what other escape does one have other than to make an autopsist's Y-incision on one's body, then slip out like a hermit crab freeing himself from his heavy shell? Embarking onto a new dimension where there's hope for a radical swap of atoms that don't shape a crippled, deteriorating human is the only choice when you want to live a life other than what you were cursed with. May we then find peace and live as naked souls bearing no heavy shells.

1

I feel young, My thoughts are young, My desires are young, But, my bones do not agree with them.

0

Apr 26, 2018

Apr 26, 2018 at 5:25 AM UTC

salmabanu-hatim

Young

I feel young, My thoughts are young, My desires are young, But, my bones do not agree with them.

4

These hands have done it all They're tough as wire rope They've fought to defend freedom They've carried flags of hope They've wiped away the salty tears Of a mother, full of pride They've folded up our nations flag For a son, with honor, died They've held a newborn really close They've birthed a newborn calf They've taken down a hundred men And a hundred more, by half These hands don't represent me But, these hands have done it all They've done eight seconds on a bull And they've broken through a wall These hands are soft as leather And as hard as Georgia Clay What they did so long before They can not do today These hand are all arthritic Crippled up, and full of pain But,you know these hands would love just once To grab that rope again These hands are full of memories Built for strength, and not for speed These hands are built to hold you Even now, that's all I need These hands, they tell my story My life, is in these hands I don't look at them as crippled I just look and think....These Hands....

0

Sep 7, 2015

Sep 7, 2015 at 4:46 PM UTC

roger-turner

These Hands

These hands have done it all They're tough as wire rope They've fought to defend freedom They've carried flags of hope They've wiped away the salty tears Of a mother, full of pride They've folded up our nations flag For a son, with honor, died They've held a newborn really close They've birthed a newborn calf They've taken down a hundred men And a hundred more, by half These hands don't represent me But, these hands have done it all They've done eight seconds on a bull And they've broken through a wall These hands are soft as leather And as hard as Georgia Clay What they did so long before They can not do today These hand are all arthritic Crippled up, and full of pain But,you know these hands would love just once To grab that rope again These hands are full of memories Built for strength, and not for speed These hands are built to hold you Even now, that's all I need These hands, they tell my story My life, is in these hands I don't look at them as crippled I just look and think....These Hands....

32

I've always been told That I have an old soul I think it's getting arthritis

0

Jul 13, 2015

Jul 13, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC

nicole-dawn

Arthritis

I've always been told That I have an old soul I think it's getting arthritis

3

Health reflects plateaus, Thick tears running like rivers, Arthritic mountains, Wrinkles ripple at beaches, Plains welcome the exhausted, Suburbs look peaceful, Rural childhood decomposed, Urban amnesia, Roads outline the senile brain, Destination: nostalgia.

0

Oct 27, 2014

Oct 27, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC

blinkforman23

Map

Health reflects plateaus, Thick tears running like rivers, Arthritic mountains, Wrinkles ripple at beaches, Plains welcome the exhausted, Suburbs look peaceful, Rural childhood decomposed, Urban amnesia, Roads outline the senile brain, Destination: nostalgia.

10