#guatemala - Hello Poetry

The Weight I Carry (And What It Costs) The past is not behind me— It walks beside me still. It speaks in quiet moments And bends me to its will. It lingers in the sterile light, It echoes in the hum Of monitors and whispered prayers When hope is all but gone. The present isn’t softer— It pulses through the pain Of patients breaking in my hands, Of lives I can’t sustain. But I know how to sit with fear, I’ve breathed through it for years. I’ve felt the dark press on my chest And fought back drowning tears. PTSD has marked my soul, But made me sharp and kind. I see the wounds behind the words That others never find. In scrubs, I’m strong, I speak with calm, I know just what to do. At work, I give what’s left of me To help someone pull through. But when I cross the threshold home, The weight becomes too loud. The walls expect a gentler me Than what I’m still allowed. The stress I never fully name, It follows me inside. And suddenly, the smallest things Feel like a wave, a tide. I’m not as soft, I’m not as still, I shut down when you speak. I’ve run dry from giving all day— There’s nothing left to leak. And though I love with all I am, Some nights, I disappear. Not into war zones far away, But right beside you here. So if I seem a world away, Or cold when I come home— Know it’s not you I push against, Just the silence I’ve outgrown. The past still lives inside my bones, The present takes its toll. But loving you and healing too— It’s both my wound and goal. And all I ask is that you see The fight behind the face. I’m learning how to carry less, And come back to this place. So hold me when the light runs low, Remind me love is near— That even when I give too much, There’s still room to be here. © 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.

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Apr 21, 2025

Apr 21, 2025 at 1:43 PM UTC

MNPikey

The Weight I Carry

The Weight I Carry (And What It Costs) The past is not behind me— It walks beside me still. It speaks in quiet moments And bends me to its will. It lingers in the sterile light, It echoes in the hum Of monitors and whispered prayers When hope is all but gone. The present isn’t softer— It pulses through the pain Of patients breaking in my hands, Of lives I can’t sustain. But I know how to sit with fear, I’ve breathed through it for years. I’ve felt the dark press on my chest And fought back drowning tears. PTSD has marked my soul, But made me sharp and kind. I see the wounds behind the words That others never find. In scrubs, I’m strong, I speak with calm, I know just what to do. At work, I give what’s left of me To help someone pull through. But when I cross the threshold home, The weight becomes too loud. The walls expect a gentler me Than what I’m still allowed. The stress I never fully name, It follows me inside. And suddenly, the smallest things Feel like a wave, a tide. I’m not as soft, I’m not as still, I shut down when you speak. I’ve run dry from giving all day— There’s nothing left to leak. And though I love with all I am, Some nights, I disappear. Not into war zones far away, But right beside you here. So if I seem a world away, Or cold when I come home— Know it’s not you I push against, Just the silence I’ve outgrown. The past still lives inside my bones, The present takes its toll. But loving you and healing too— It’s both my wound and goal. And all I ask is that you see The fight behind the face. I’m learning how to carry less, And come back to this place. So hold me when the light runs low, Remind me love is near— That even when I give too much, There’s still room to be here. © 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.