"worried" poems
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.
If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.
If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.
If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.
If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?
If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
Alright now, right brain,
you're being insane.
No, left brain! I'm just being alive.
You should try it---you might like it.
I worked hard to give him everything he cared about.
You were worried about the things that he was scared about.
I'm calm and collected when you act wild.
I am the adult, you are the child.
You think you're the right one every time!
You think you know everything, but you don't know anything
at all.
Half of his problems were s'posed to be mine!
But you wanted everything.
I hope that you're happy--- 'cause he's sure not.
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
Seriously?!
I'm a ****
Wait. No you're not. Hold on.
I can't find...
I can't find my ******* Help me look.
blankets flung.
nothing.
You're...
you're laughing right now?
How could you not?
Can you see that
we're standing in a
giant pond of
ridiculosity.
a glasses lense
popped out.
hair a nest
of invisible
rodents.
his belt
all askew worried
face pursed
lips.
shirt tails- a crumpled
facade of the pressed
summer evening shadows
outlined behind
the lawn sprinklers from
the night before.
and in the cab
to work
phone almost
dies. 37 degree damp
heat pressing
against the car
like a monroe-type
kitten from the
50s.
the morning world
bustling awake
the driver asks
'you work this
afternoon?'
shake my head 'no'
slowly working the
knots out of my
hair
brace for the last
day.
And I'm
still missing
my underwear.
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Millennial is what called in this generation,
Everywhere here and there,
There are always youths who really never care,
And never been worried about their future.
In Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Messenger,
Are consists of follower, liker, reader and including seener,
Loitering and using fake accounts just to gain a wholesome money,
Even though that it is notorious, they still embark their blunt journey.
Most millennials are undisputedly addicted to social media,
Their lives depends on likes they are going to gain,
They don't care if their faces might be inside of multi-media,
And they don't even care if it will give them a pain.
Some truly go beyond their limits just to have a lot of likes,
Perhaps they are fame ***** but they don't care if someone strikes,
Strikes every part of their body including their faces and such,
Yet they don't care if it will hurt them too much.
However, seeking attention in the cyber world isn't a good thing,
Instead they should focus on things that are essentially free like a king,
Because in this generation, too many people are unaware and careless,
And some they didn't even notice that our environment is already full of fraud either hypocrite and genuine people are less.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 4:50 AM UTC
Sitting in a waiting room with twenty other men,
All waiting for the good doctor to come; and then,
I notice, we’ve been waiting for half an hour;
Some worried sick, just sitting with no power
To help themselves or others in the room;
Just waiting; and although there’s no more room,
Another one enters. No! Sorry! A pair;
Yes! Most people come with companions who care;
Or, pretend to care, and seek relief here.
They say, “He’s always late. He has nothing to fear!
He is the great doctor!” But why is he late?!
Is he watching? Is he smiling at our fate?
Or, is he sleeping with some pretty goddess?
When are you going to come Mr. Flawless?!
Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m right; but if I’m right,
We are all waiting for him to *** right?!
Forget it. This room makes illusions shatter;
All helpless, no relief; but, does it matter?
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 4:49 AM UTC
We used to swing under the big willow tree
We lived 3 doors down from each other
We were princesses who fought dragons
We could save the kingdom and find our prince by lunch time
Our moms laughed and talked about how cute we were
Four years old was a cute age
Fast forward a bit
We went into elementary school innocent and young
Boys had cooties
Girls had cooties
Kickball always ended with someone getting hit in the face
We would always sit out field and pick grass and shape it into a little birds nest
Life was good
Until your parents started fighting and I mean really fighting.
It scared me and I would have to go home
I would make you come with me
three doors down
Our moms didn’t laugh anymore
By Christmas break your parents were broken up and divorced
Eight years old was a confusing age
Junior high was mean.
Girls would rip you to shreds and then hang pieces of you on everyone’s lockers
Boys just wanted to make out
A whirlwind of uncontrolled hormones
We were the quiet ones
Always flew under the radar
Just trying to make it out alive
We found a little spot to eat lunch under the stairs where no one would go
We giggled and talked about boys who didn’t even know that we existed
I remember crying in the bathroom with you because people were brutal and we weren’t good enough
Our moms worried about us and how distant we were becoming
Thirteen years old was a sad age
Highschool is another story
You were put in the hospital for a month
I was left at school alone
I had to find more friends
I found most of them were fake
So I ate my lunch in a bathroom stall
Reading all the swear words that were carved in the wall
You were really sick and we grew apart
We were always close
We will always love each other
You tried to save me from myself
But I didn’t let you
Seventeen was an important age
Now we are at different colleges
I tried to **** myself while you were getting an A on your anatomy test
It’s sad
We don’t swing under the big willow tree or fight dragons anymore
Our moms hardly talk
You are a success
and I am a failure
We don’t really mesh
I miss you every day
I’m sorry I can’t be good enough for you
We were princesses who lived three doors down, we saved the kingdom.
I love you
I’m sorry this has faded
Just like everything else
Nineteen years old is a dying age.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 4:23 AM UTC
I saw a carving from Bethlehem that you had given my Nan,
She showed me a photograph of you, you were tall, with a golden tan.
The carving it was inscribed, 'with love from your brother Tom',
I knew my Nan had looked up to you, when all was said and done.
My Nan she was a little girl, when you were called away,
With her mother she waited eagerly for news, day, by day, by day.
In her eyes you were a hero who had gone off to the war,
Your smiling face, and uniform, were the last things that she saw.
She dreamt of the day that you would come back, striding through the gate,
she heard her mother pacing, though she didn't know your fate.
She heard her mother weeping but didn't want to know the reason why,
In her stomach she had a feeling that something was awry.
Then her mother sat her down and told her you were dead,
She told me she went dizzy, blood rushing to her head.
She told me she cried out your name, her heart it was pure broken,
The army sent a telegram, but it was really just a token.
You were just a boy of eighteen years when you were forced away,
I wonder how many mothers would cope if their sons left today.
They couldn't give you a grave, there was nothing left to bury,
You were blown to pieces in one hit, with bombs dropped in a flurry.
You only lasted for three months in your short, tough, army life,
My Nan died aged eighty-four, after a life of grief and strife,
She pined for you throughout those years and missed you everyday,
Her hero, her brother Tom, who left and went away.
She worried that when you fought, you longed for her and home
And worried that you were consumed with fear, and if that fear had grown.
She wondered if you had called out "Mum" and if your blood was swept by the tide,
how desperately she had wished, that she had been there, by your side.
The reason I know of you today, is that girl who became my Nan,
Who kept your memory alive as she always did back then,
I tell my sons about you Tom, I hope it's the right thing to do,
And I hope that they will love me as much, as my Nan had loved you.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
I'm a lot gayer than originally planned.
******* Gay.
But I'm worried about the concept;
not sure if it's right to use the word
“gay”
when (I'm sorry I said it)
I'm really bisexual,
just particularly into women right now.
Like,
is that bad representation
of my sexuality?
Only encouraging
bi-erasure?
It just doesn't have the same
“umph”
to say
I'm feeling particularly
bisexual today.
But I've been telling myself
over and over
that it's okay,
no matter what
I'm feeling today.
I don't
need
your
box
anymore.
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
4"2 with the voice of an angel
he couldn't be more than ten
the only thing he ever stole was the hearts of those around him
a week later,
his body drains of blood
a mother's cry echoes around the town
her innocent baby
why'd they **** her innocent baby?
he was only nine.
a mother's cry echoes around the world
her baby is gone
blood drains from his body
one shot to the head
several to the torso
why'd they **** her baby?
he was only coming from school.
a shaken up officer stands to the left
Caucasian and worried
a grieving community to the right
African-American and terrified
straight A's and a bright future at seventeen
a future no-one could foresee
both labeled thugs
at 9 and 17
why?
because of the skin they keep.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 8:09 PM UTC
I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.
Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.
I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.
I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.
So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.
Paul Butters
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 4:54 AM UTC
I don't know what it is
but I have grown very fond
of umbrellas
all shapes and sizes and colors
I never owned an umbrella
until a week ago
it was raining all day
and my mom gave
an umbrella
nothing fancy
just a black umbrella
then the rain let up
and I almost used
the umbrella
but I was worried
I wouldn't be able to dry it out
getting an umbrella wet
is a funny thing to worry about
but that's how I think
and that's not going to change
so when the sun comes back out
to dry the streets
only then
will I use
my first umbrella
for the first time
and it won't get wet
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it' all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I' not jealous
because we' never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame -- not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they' told
us, but listening to you I wasn' sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, " her, print her, she' mad but she'
magic. there' no lie in her fire." I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you **** in the bathroom,
but that didn' happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn' help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
19.5k
In all my paralyzing confusion, only one thing is needed; in all my anxiety over my much less than ideal circumstances, only one thing is needed; in all my this-is-so-unfair discouragement, only one thing is needed; in my pressing-down-like-a-boulder-on-my-chest grief, only one thing is needed; in my feels-like-my-insides-are-being-scraped-out sorrow, only one thing is needed; in my falling-apart-at-every-seam life, only one thing is needed; in my can’t-seem-to-muster-the-will-to-get-out-of-bed depression, only one thing is needed; in my sure-I’m-finally-going-crazy state of mind, only one thing is needed; in my so-mad-I’ve-got-to-throw-and-break-something anger, only one thing is needed. In the scorning and tormenting face of rejection or betrayal or failure or devastating news or disfiguring disease or the worst fears of my heart coming to pass, only one thing is needed—to come and sit at Jesus’ feet and listen to what He is saying.
To entrust myself to Him, to acknowledge His presence with me, to submit myself to His perfect authority over me, to just look at Him and recognize His all-surpassing worth, to feast on Him, to wait for Him to speak and know that He longs to do so more than I long to hear it, to meditate on His Word and speak it back to Him both in praise and request and to ask Him exactly what it means for me right now, to be ready to respond to Him in obedience and follow him wherever or however He leads, to be willing to tune out every competing voice no matter how well-intentioned and to say “No!” to whatever He has not called me to, to believe that He cares deeply and passionately for me both in His emotion toward me and in His personal tending of me, to see that the details of my life matter even more to Him than they do to me and that He holds every one of them in His hands and is perfectly directing them for intimacy and glory, to refuse to be drawn away or worried or upset by the many preparations and distractions all around me by casting every burden down before Him and taking up His all-sufficient grace for every need, and above all to want Him more than anything and to let everything else fit into that all-pervasive desire—this is the ONE THING that is needed both now and throughout every season of my life, and if I will choose it, it will not be taken from me. It is the one thing worth fighting to the death for and will, no doubt, require just such a dying again and again and again...
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 7:27 PM UTC
I feel worried that there has been such a long stretch of time without reward seeking behavior that the part of my brain which handles motivation is now a cold plate of hamburger
By this stage in a man's life, should he not seek another's company?
I don't chill as I did during the time my mind still was soft and simple
I've grown into melancholy, though many memories ago I'd desired socialization
There is globalization; I feel alone, I've bathed, I'm soaked in isolation
I set out two years ago to be sure that I learn before I continue to live, my reasoning suggested that this action shall produce enormous benefit
and my self-esteem was gleaming hot & sensually satisfied
This I learned at 21 was not just for women
But for the wise whom admit they need it
I shall try to smile more, perhaps my brain does not know what reward is
I will fool my brain into happiness, you'll see
With a new mindful world these words will be continued
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
I was 15,
And you were 16.
And we met through a computer screen.
And we instantly connected.
And we talked non-stop.
And we became best friends.
And we shared our deepest secrets with one another,
not caring that we were two complete strangers.
That never really mattered.
We were just troubled kids,
longing for someone to talk to.
Someone who felt the things we did.
Someone who wouldn't judge us.
Someone who might possibly understand.
We found that in each other.
You were my solace.
And I loved you.
I told you about how my family was no longer a family.
And you told me about how you didn't know if you could handle much more.
And I was worried.
And you occasionally disappeared for days on end.
And I became frantic.
And you would tell me you were in the hospital.
Those ****** pills again.
And I begged you to stop,
To try and get better.
Because you were my solace.
And I loved you.
I was 16,
and you were 17.
And you had a girlfriend.
And she didnt like me.
Or maybe she just didnt like what we had.
So she made you choose.
And it broke my heart to see you choose her.
Because you were my solace.
And I loved you.
Six months later.
Six devastatingly long months later.
I heard from you again.
And I didn't know how to feel.
So I cried.
Tears of anger, sadness, regret.
But mostly joy.
Because you were back.
You were finally back.
And you were my solace.
And I loved you.
I was 17,
And you were 18.
And we met face to face.
After two long years, it finally happened.
And it was the best night of my life.
And I was so sad to see you leave.
But you had to return to your broken home.
And things got worse for you.
And old habits picked back up.
And your depression consumed you.
And it ate me alive to see you that way.
Because you were my solace.
And I loved you.
I am 18,
And you should be 19.
But you never got to see that day.
Because old habits die hard.
And you finally succeeded.
And my heart feels like it's been ripped out of my chest.
But the rest of my body is numb.
And my mind is darker than ever.
Because now I have no one to share my secrets with.
No one to listen.
Because you are gone.
And you were my solace.
And I love you.
~kns
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
I do not have a gay agenda
That consists of me stealing your faith
Crushing your god
And molesting you with my eyes
If you pass me in a crowded hall.
I do not have a gay agenda
That consists of me taking the minds
Of innocent children
And leading then into devil worship.
I do have a gay agenda
That consists of me (a girl)
Finding the perfect girl
To call my wife
And start a family with.
I do have a gay agenda
That consists of me letting love be fluid
Labels have no meaning
Or bounds
And letting religion roam free.
So with my simple gay agenda of love
Why are you so worried?
Are you afraid that my agenda will beat out yours?
After all love trumps all hate
In the end
One way or another.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 9:55 PM UTC
I love the crack of the bat
not in a big baseball field
but when my Daddy plays.
Yeah sure,
he's on Pitt's Honors College team,
and they call themselves 'Nerd Softball'
but it makes me happy to watch him play.
It has been a rough couple of years on Dad.
I know it,
*** he keeps coming to talk to me
and he never, ever used to do that
and now he's always chattering away
it feels nice
but I am worried.
Today, they lost 25- 4
not 24
4
but they were playing the Pitt Police
so I'm still proud.
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 6:45 PM UTC
I hear of your struggles
In every way
You tell me of them
Over and over and over
And I feel mixed
Twisted
On one side honored
You trust me enough to tell me
But on the other side worried
For how this consumes you
I found you in the midst of Dark
Shining as the brightest Light
Undeterred by the greatest of evils
And I was forever in awe
As a moth to its light
But instead of finding my solace in your warmth
You dimmed
Once withstanding anything thrown at you,
But instead finding darkness to come
From a place least expected:
From those closest
And the Dark took you
Elated in its clever nature
Now you complain
Over matters you would have brushed aside
I can see this aura around you
While once filled with the greatest Light,
Now lies tinged with specks of black
And I can see it consuming you
Perhaps I was naïve
Searching for something different in our world
A source of Light
Rather than a consumer of it
I’m glad I was able to witness your brilliance
As it taught me many things
No matter how brilliant your light,
The greatest Light
Only shows in times of the greatest darkness
Beaming into the Dark
A hopeless task
Yet filled with the greatest Hope of all
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along
And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC
This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water
****** predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass ****** school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
**** alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:
Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws
But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 3:58 PM UTC
When you tried to give me a compliment I always turn the cheek
Batting it away like it doesn't belong to me
That my hair is too frizzy for you to like it
My eyes too blue for your brown
My legs are elegant but they are marked with my disappointment
The purple and the blue will never go away
Yes, the bruises will slowly heal but by the time one problem is resolved another sapling and will slowly take root and show it's colors
You say my heart is made to heal
But I can't find it
It's buried so deep I can't hear it keeping time to my life song
It's crushed under all my self downs and worries
In that hollow it grows
Like a new bud
And one day it will turn into a flower
My response to your comment is lost on my tongue
It is somewhere tucked inside my conscience
Playing hide and seek with the directions on how to talk to boys and how to give an oral report without turning red
And I'm the seeker
You tell me I'm beautiful
But I can't hear you
The voices taunting me inside my head are too loud for your soft voice
Arguing about which way right
When I find my answer it seems as if the time has already left
You are already heading off in the other direction
Leaving me stumbling over my daydreams and expectations
Trying to get a grasp on what's ethical
I always forget to say thank you
It's sort of a bad habit
I'm always too worried about what will happen if I say something wrong
If I'll turn you away
I want you to know that I want you to stay
Stay close and hug me when I need it
So I can help you through your hardships
And carry each other's hopes and dreams upon our shoulders
You will be the soldier of my heart
Guarding the gates for all of the knights in shining armor that aren't noble enough to be my Prince Charming
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
the cat steals my tongue
when i see your pretty face
and my words start to race
fighting to get along
you often wonder why am i so shy
you say , you should at least try
try , make an effort to talk
i know you're just worried
that i'll fade away alone in the dark.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC
Who is this ghost in the corner of my eye?
I've seen that ambiguous shape before.
Was it in a nightmare?
Or from a repressed memory?
I can't shake this feeling that I've seen this ghost before..
I want to meet this ghost..
But I'm worried of what secrets the ghost holds.
It's concealed itself in the dark abyss..
This dark abyss is beckoning to me..
It feels so warm against my skin..
Nov 17, 2011
Nov 17, 2011 at 12:04 PM UTC
Sorry
For texting you, for bugging you,
for annoying you.
for thinking of you day and night.
by being clingy and possessive.
for staying by your side every time you push me away.
Sorry I get worried about you.
for needing your attention,
for being needy to you.
Sorry for loving you.
I'm very sorry... I can't unlove you.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 5:58 PM UTC
I stand in front of the mirror,
Not used to what I see.
Because I’m a child,
In a woman’s body.
I used to be skinny,
Straight up and down.
I’ve sprouted a chest,
And a frown.
I don’t understand,
Why I have these hips.
I’m really worried,
About my angry fits.
I’d give anything,
To be a child again.
To have self-esteem,
At the age of eleven.
Mar 12, 2012
Mar 12, 2012 at 1:17 PM UTC