#marginalized - Hello Poetry

I love the ones who suffer The ones who walk bent over under the weight of some old, sad burden The ones with gold hidden in the creases of their eyes whose hands are worn out whose feet are scraped raw whose hearts are rawer still The ones who love one‑sided who heal badly who blush with shame who scream from fear or from pleasure who are eaten away by pain who strip themselves bare who tear at their own hair who hurt their own bodies who lose their teeth who hate the mirror who are thirsty whose stomachs are empty who stutter who no one seems to understand The ones who cry the ones who laugh too loud the ones who lose the thread the ones who never found it again the ones who forget themselves the ones who open themselves the ones reading in a crowd the ones watching everything the ones painting out in the open air the ones carrying too much food the ones gathering flowers the ones performing in the street the ones whose talent isn’t recognized the ones who don’t give up the ones who beg in silence The ones we call the poor the drunks the homeless the crazies the cracked the mad the dispossessed the immigrants the forgotten the minorities the oppressed the ones pressed flat by society The unlucky are my heroes The traumatized are my heroes The grieving are my heroes People who have lost speech are my heroes. Disabled people are my heroes People who use drugs are my heroes People living with depression are my heroes. People living with mental illness are my heroes. People who died by suicide are my herons Survivors are my heroes Autistic people are my heroes All the “dys-” are my heroes People living on welfare are my heroes The exhausted are my heroes The part‑time participants in life are my heroes Artists who are broke are my heroes Writers who feel like failures are my heroes Poets who still refuse to break are my heroes While I indulge in some intellectual ************ on Hello Poetry

0

May 6

May 6, 2026 at 12:12 PM UTC

Callixiope

The people I call my heroes

I love the ones who suffer The ones who walk bent over under the weight of some old, sad burden The ones with gold hidden in the creases of their eyes whose hands are worn out whose feet are scraped raw whose hearts are rawer still The ones who love one‑sided who heal badly who blush with shame who scream from fear or from pleasure who are eaten away by pain who strip themselves bare who tear at their own hair who hurt their own bodies who lose their teeth who hate the mirror who are thirsty whose stomachs are empty who stutter who no one seems to understand The ones who cry the ones who laugh too loud the ones who lose the thread the ones who never found it again the ones who forget themselves the ones who open themselves the ones reading in a crowd the ones watching everything the ones painting out in the open air the ones carrying too much food the ones gathering flowers the ones performing in the street the ones whose talent isn’t recognized the ones who don’t give up the ones who beg in silence The ones we call the poor the drunks the homeless the crazies the cracked the mad the dispossessed the immigrants the forgotten the minorities the oppressed the ones pressed flat by society The unlucky are my heroes The traumatized are my heroes The grieving are my heroes People who have lost speech are my heroes. Disabled people are my heroes People who use drugs are my heroes People living with depression are my heroes. People living with mental illness are my heroes. People who died by suicide are my herons Survivors are my heroes Autistic people are my heroes All the “dys-” are my heroes People living on welfare are my heroes The exhausted are my heroes The part‑time participants in life are my heroes Artists who are broke are my heroes Writers who feel like failures are my heroes Poets who still refuse to break are my heroes While I indulge in some intellectual ************ on Hello Poetry

71

in the park, the homeless stamp their feet in the cold as the snow drifts down through the city onto leafless trees, painting winter branches white and still and voiceless

0

Jan 24, 2024

Jan 24, 2024 at 6:06 AM UTC

philip-lawrence

Winter Coat

in the park, the homeless stamp their feet in the cold as the snow drifts down through the city onto leafless trees, painting winter branches white and still and voiceless

4

My heroes are born in pain. And in pain they seek beauty. By their hands they find it. They spill their blood and tears into words. Then they pick up their swords. They march forward, resolved If no one else will start, they will. But my heroes are not heroes because they sacrificed themselves. They are not heroes because they bled. They didn't do anything that you couldn't do. They are heroes because even in their pain they gave a **** and asked you to join them. Imagine what we could do if you actually did.

0

Jun 2, 2022

Jun 2, 2022 at 11:48 PM UTC

called2voyage

True Heroes

My heroes are born in pain. And in pain they seek beauty. By their hands they find it. They spill their blood and tears into words. Then they pick up their swords. They march forward, resolved If no one else will start, they will. But my heroes are not heroes because they sacrificed themselves. They are not heroes because they bled. They didn't do anything that you couldn't do. They are heroes because even in their pain they gave a **** and asked you to join them. Imagine what we could do if you actually did.

12

A glass is broken across our backs. The shards take hold and we wince. We hoist the world upon our shoulders. It drives the shards in deep, like tacks. We suffer the pain of cultured hate. The daggers destined for our flesh. Still they expect we lift the empire, And with our wounds support its weight. Whether they praise us for being brave, Or curse our kind to an early death, They all demand our labor to drive Production until we hit the grave.

0

Mar 7, 2021

Mar 7, 2021 at 8:29 PM UTC

called2voyage

The Weight of the Empire

A glass is broken across our backs. The shards take hold and we wince. We hoist the world upon our shoulders. It drives the shards in deep, like tacks. We suffer the pain of cultured hate. The daggers destined for our flesh. Still they expect we lift the empire, And with our wounds support its weight. Whether they praise us for being brave, Or curse our kind to an early death, They all demand our labor to drive Production until we hit the grave.

12