Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)


I cannot take the world on my shoulders,
but that thought alone won’t help me sleep.

One would think now that I’m older
I’d pray the Lord my soul to keep.

Like soldiers are the troubles
marching through my mind.

A suburb is reduced to rubble
in a foreign clime.

My brain is broken like the back of this place.

My body a token of torture on the rack of the human race.

Yet sometime in the morning’s early hours I drift away

knowing there are shoulders stronger than mine holding up the world today.

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