"worriers" poems
You're blind when you see me,
I'm on my knees and broken.
I remind you who I really am,
Remember these words I've spoken.
Unshakable you see me,
You see me standing tall.
Like a statue made of stone,
You see a rock who'll never fall.
Unbreakable you see me,
You see me effortlessly bold.
Like the stars will always shine,
You see power you think I hold.
Unstoppable you see me,
You see me fighting without fear.
Like relentless worriers conquer,
You see a hero who never sheds a tear.
I make my strength shine bright,
Shine to cover up my weakness.
You can't see past my Confidence,
You refuse to see me my meekness
Even stone can't stand forever,
The world will beat it down.
I remind you I'm only human,
The world can make me drown.
Even stars can't shine so bright,
So bright to shine through the clouds.
I remind you I'm just another face,
Another face in amongst the crowds.
Even heroes can't withstand all,
Hold the weight of the world alone.
I remind you I can't hold on forever,
Excessive trials will break my backbone.
I refuse to let you believe,
Believe who you see is perfect.
A pedestal I don't deserve,
And don't EVER say I'm worth it.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 11:47 PM UTC
suddenly I'm able to see
everything. too much.
its all there. right
in front of me
everything is
elucidated
I just wish someone would
come back, and fog up these windows
I use for eyes and maybe
put back some of that
sweet mystery
into the world
I wish I was back in that
candy shop. When my only worriers
were the cavities that Dr. Patanaud
would discover
hiding in the dark crevices of
my mouth
But now, along with those cavities
in the deep and infinite caves
of my whole are secrets
that hurt more than cavities
that I wish my dentist could
fill. but he cannot
and so now, here
I am. with a
sore mouth. and sore
eyes. and sore
ears. sitting at the only
lit table in a romantically dark
room
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 5:09 PM UTC
Of the 7846,000,000 people
Breathing on this boundless planet
Forcing hearts in homes and gripping life between decaying bones
You are the only things
I am convinced are made of
Every single commendable capability, crammed between honour and stability
Every good intention, of every promise that was meant to be kept
Regardless of whether they were ours to try and keep
You were crafted with the courage of lions
And I’ll never tire of preying on the poachers long before they dare come traipsing through our territories
You love with the ferocity of fire and on the days you fear there’s more smoke than flames and worry the pain may stamp you out, I’ll strike a match on the walls of my heart til we blaze our own trail out the dark
I love you with the loyalty of lightning and it’s devotion to the thunder that echoes between
I’m not one for holding grudges but I will never forgive the thoughts in your mind for convincing you that somewhere amongst all of the magic that is you, that it is not enough
As if enough has to be earned
As though you need to apologise for the faults that simply make you human and flaws that make you, you
As though you need to be ashamed of the history that formed you and the memories that sowed scars into our skin
I am sorry for the people who tried to convince us our best wasn’t good enough
It was never anything less
I am sorry for the people that laid land mines in our skull and made us believe that heads full of dreams
Really did have nowhere to go
Little did they know.
We are worriers and we are warriors.
So when the self doubt storms you, and your insecurities swarm you
And your anxieties wear you thin
Don’t forget about the armour and ammunition we were born with
Buried deep within
If our hearts do build homes within bones. You are always welcome home to me. ♥️
Jul 21, 2021
Jul 21, 2021 at 7:01 AM UTC
Sometimes, when bad thoughts plauge my mind at night
I shake my head
in a rapid succession of movement
my attempts to empty the excess
Every night of my childhood
I made a Vegas worthy deal with my father
He took my worries at night
and I took his
He claimed us the biggest worriers on the earth
Dubbed me queen of the Worry Wells before
carefully placing a kiss on my forehead
You see, forehead kisses
were my fathers attempt
to **** out the unseen youthful damage
of a brain constantly panicked with worry
Every night of my childhood
my father left me with his suitcase of fears
I was always too worried to open it
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 2:49 AM UTC
Before the opening of the sky where three men sat
asking questions why,
of where the King of men would sit among the shepherds who could pit their wits against the wolves and worriers of sheep.
Asleep and yet in sleep I woke before the Oldest Magi spoke and talked to me in parables, as if I understood the riddles,being middle aged and hard of hearing.
In the clearing by the burning bush as hushed crowds looked on,with fish and bread and baptist John, a Rasta man from Birmingham, stood Salome daring me to take off veils so I could see
her nakedness and blood that dripped black off her hands,
These Holy lands,
this righteous band,these writers of a history that we delivered to the three.a triumphant trilogy that we become before the opening of another sky,another sun that burned names deeply on a cross of wood
and beggars in the hallways full of Baptist John,who with no head or eyes,could not imagine what was going on
but ripped out messages from the scriptures to paint pictures that he'd never see,while Salome intercoursed with Roman scribes and perfumed men and if to be as if she could,
When her name was carved into the wood, as if another cross to bear would do more good and her screaming could be heard in prophecies by Galilee,as people gathered on street corners,to hear what they could never see and not believe,
and lepers grieved by river banks,their thanks and blessings washed away,their only ray of hope
hung out to dry
as three wise men sat and wondered why, the world moved on
Forgotten is The Baptist John,another prophet dead and gone and are we any better off for all of that?
I put a penny in the hat that's passed around to keep the upkeep of some distant consecrated piece of ground I'll never see
but hedging bets is what we do,
and make lamb stew
because we're all wolves with appetites to match.
I ****** another bleating sheep
and keep my thoughts
silently
stewing.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
For the group that is notoriously almost synonymous with
lost or troubled.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.
For my friends who can’t seem to speak with
eloquence,
yet pour out their soul on paper,
who spell out their heart in ink.
For anyone who uses a pen as their medium
and words as their art form.
For those whose blood turns to ink
or words on a bright screen piercing through the dark.
For those whose eyes glaze over as their minds furiously enact a story
or piece together just the right phrasing.
For those that are only okay and constantly exhausted.
For those that mutter, “I don’t think I can,”
or “I’m just tired.”
For those with a firm grip on insanity and caffeine.
For those who make plans but rarely follow through.
For those who too often hear,
“Stop worrying,”
“It’ll be okay,”
and “I don’t know how to help.”
Or “You have to let it go,”
“Just go with it,”
and “It doesn’t matter.”
For those with tired eyes, blank faces, and rare, genuine smiles.
For frazzled insomniacs or narcoleptics.
For those who laugh too loud but often stay silent.
For those huddled in blankets in bedrooms,
in corners observing the outside world.
For those who love small settings
and avoid large gatherings like the plague.
For the worriers and the wanderers seeking to find themselves
in a perfect combination
of letters.
For the groups that seem to go together
like a typewriter and frustration;
or a pen and paper.
For my people-
the poets and the lost.
~SES
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 12:41 AM UTC
There's been nothing to look forward to
The days seem intertwined
My dreams have become diluted
Stuck in the perils of my mind
I'll sleep the day away
Stay wide awake throughout the nights
The darkness hides the pain I'm in
And any remanence of my plight
What's out there lurking in the shadows
With the stars my only light
I stare into the emptiness
Weighing wrong from right
Questioning my role on earth
And which fire to ignite
To set in motion my devotion
And launch my rocket into flight
I am merely a speck of dust
In the grand scale of our 'verse
Our existence just an afterthought
That mother earths' disbursed
Sitting, waiting, watching days go by
The outcome looming large
An inevitable grave tragedy
As tears fall from loved ones eyes
I chuckle at the thought of legacy
For the future passers by
What a twisted complexity
This fragile thing that we call life.
The hustle and the bustle
The ladders we must climb
To reach the top, the utmost peek
Why even waste the time?
Where is the silver lining?
What mysteries left to find?
What discovery of all discoveries
Can amend this somber paradigm?
Love you say!?
I hasten to agree
How does that explain my disdain
For the person that is me
I, of good heart and soul
And adored by a grand descent
Still have yet to wet my whistle
By way of the clouds above my head
I feel I must confess my passion
To set the worriers at ease
Not for the sake of saying so
Nor for the galleries esteem
But for self and perseverance
The underlining good
So what, pray tell do you say?
It is that of motherhood
The nature of its being
The uniqueness and individuality
Of every single human being
And love, in this pretext
Is a love that I can bare
That of every living thing
In to which nothing can compare
A metamorphosis of thought!
For you and I alike
The yin and yang unearthed
The meaning of life.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 5:29 AM UTC
I cross the bridge to nowhere, in the cold, in my underwear
Intense winds push me to edges, where I contemplate ledges
Looking down, spirits swim and stare; icy waters are their lair
I levitate and meditate; medicate with mental dredges
Such mundane nonchalance; my bridge leads to idiot savants
I would be crowned their King, kindred soul of unsound meditations
We've left our lost souls unburied, unhurried to right the carriage
Take a deep breath of the ether of dregs and suppurations
Take the one whom you love, not in marriage, in ************
On the bridge, I pass a young ponce and hear echoes of "Bon Chance!"
Purple rags greet me at the gate, royal flags of highest distinction
Winking my eye, scratching my head, the dead are now forgotten
Deep in my pit, so deep I forget, a pang of extinction
In my palace of darkness, no light will shine on the rotten
In the court of fools, coarse avowals can't be washed by the fonts
So lines are drawn by idiot courtiers and indigent warriors
Cities with no regret or sorrow, tomorrow trampled to tatters
Through smoke and burnt flesh we ***** we hope to soothe the worriers
We are all Babylonians, babbling on as if nothing matters
The bridges to nowhere we cross, we cross bridges to Babylons
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 1:05 AM UTC
Tired of time
Tools and
ticks,
Zipping up the
perished cracks of
heads
distracted;
Maybe gone for good.
The arms of our clock
keep racing
Hurried,
Hurried,
Hushful
Scurrying
Worriers
Come on,
I want to hear
the last word
of a confident poet.
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
this is a poem for the warriors
and for the worriers.
for the children whose eyes have grown so big
they cover their mouths.
"children should be seen; not heard."
children should open their hearts;
their minds.
they should follow their dreams
and whey they are asked: what do you want to be?
they should know
that in this world, there is not one thing
they cannot do.
it's time we raise kings, and queens,
poets,
lovers,
dreamers.
it's time we teach them
that when they run away,
the fastest way to chase their dreams
is to take the train into downtown tomorrow
for there lies a world of possibility
and promises.
this is a poem for the kids
who flew too close to the stars
and were left with scars
across their cheeks.
for the teenagers who are lost
inside their own minds
and their stories that are lost
on the tips of their fingers.
this is for the wanderlust
and the starry eyed.
for the boys who have fallen too hard
for a girl who was never strong enough to catch him.
and for the girl
who is too afraid to say goodnight to the moon.
this is the time
to throw your heart on the line
and blow caution to the wind
with the seeds of a dandelion.
this is the time
to forget the nights that sing "maybe tomorrow"
and jump on a train with a one-way ticket
to a world of your forgotten promises
and know that when you hop off
tomorrow will be today
and today is the rest of your life.
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 3:55 PM UTC
Can you see how much
we need each other?!
All this “I am a rock
I am an island”
solipsistic claptrap
exposed
cos we need Joan and John
at the supermarket
and the folks at A&E
and the techies
streaming lifelines
while we figure how to be
Now, behind our keyboards
we might not be warriors,
but worriers who realise
how close we are to crashing
and yeah, some **** cash in
but let’s not forget
so when the panic lifts
we figure novel penance
and say our goodbyes
So hugs are currently virtual,
but our care for once
is real
Maybe that’s the virus deal
Maybe we’re done with
u ok ***
so when we re-emerge
we can see clearly
**** sapiens
are one species
and switch on to each other,
sisters and brothers alike
Being nice is for life
Apr 15, 2020
Apr 15, 2020 at 7:52 AM UTC
Oh how far my eyes can see,
moonlight and stars after sunset,
Oh but, how blind I've been,
to see this world as happy.
With every mind introduced,
every being I meet,
all the stories they have told,
and all the pain that they share.
Every smile and wave,
from the people in the street,
all wane when out of sight,
because all hide discontentment.
Happiness is not a state of mind,
it's a drug freely given when conditions are right,
it's a chemical so organic and pure,
and in such short supply.
We are worriers,
we are prey,
we are victim.
We did not come to exist in a happy world,
we were born from one of hunger,
where hunters stalked the night,
where big cats and wild dogs took us if we grew weak.
Without disease, war and famine,
what else do we have to fear.
Adrenaline pumps,
endorphins race across chasms,
its not cynicism, its synaptic.
In a world free from outside forces we grow to fear whats inside,
depression is not new, it is vital,
we evolved to be scared,
but we have nothing left to be scared of,
so we fear our own humanity,
because it's all that's left.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Tropes, Dopes, Middle-Earth, and Culture Worriers
I am not clear as to what you intend by arisch. I am not of
Aryan extraction: that is Indo-Iranian; as far as I am aware
none of my ancestors spoke Hindustani, Persian, Gypsy, or
any related dialects. But if I am to understand that you are
enquiring whether I am of Jewish origin, I can only reply that I
regret that I appear to have no ancestors of that gifted people.
-Tolkien, from a letter rebuking a German publisher, 1938
One does not imagine Tolkien schlubbing about
In a garish cartoon tee and baggy shorts
A Glock strapped to his 50-inch waist
Shopping the dollar store in a Trumpy cap
One does not imagine Lewis following QAnon
Encouraging Peter to take an AR to Latin class
Or quartering the Cross of good Saint George
With a swastika’s spidering wheel of shame
Not all evil comes from outside the Shire –
Sometimes evil is our own internal desire
On the time J.R.R. Tolkien refused to work with Nazi-leaning publishers. ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)
Why does Lord of the Rings appeal to the radical right? – The Irish Times
Behind the Catholic Right’s Celebrity-Conversion Industrial Complex | Vanity Fair
Sep 11, 2024
Sep 11, 2024 at 2:02 PM UTC