Posted in original, self / self esteem

See My Bones

Would you like to see what’s inside me?

See the scars left by society

They haven’t healed, I think they never will

For all the times in their presence I’ve always felt ill

Maybe that’s why I prefer to be alone

In solitude I have grown

By myself, nothing and no one breaks my bones.

Posted in eating / losing weight, original

Skin And Bones

Tall, dark and nothing but bones

A skeleton walking

Beats a dead man who tells tales


Beautiful! They say

But all I see is a hungry zombie

Famine seems to have struck it

Drought has absorbed all the water it had within


Worse, most people want to be like them

Most people want me to be like them

Others have been played and their mind wasted

They fall into the pit of doom

where nothing but skin and bones reign


Skin and bones,

Skin and bones,

Do you really want to be like one?

The answer should be easy

Posted in original

Rest Your Bones

Tired, weary, aching

Lie down, I’ll watch over while you are sleeping

Cracked, dented, mangled

Rest easy, I’ll take care of the mess and tangle

Dreamland awaits, drift off now

When you awaken, you’ll be strong like the bough

Do not worry of tomorrow for it can wait

Rest those tired bones, I’ll be here when you wake

Posted in original

Break My Bones

Ease the pain that’s felt inside

That way I won’t have to hide

Show me now that you too feel

The way I do so I can heal

Let me know you feel it too

Tell me now that it is true


Show me now that I’m not dreaming

Can’t you hear me, hear me screaming?

My whole body shakes with anticipation

I can’t take more of this delayed gratification

Won’t you tell me, let me know?

Come on babe and let it show


If the feeling is different then tell me now

It would ease the pain somehow

Break every little piece of me

Break my hands, my eyes so I can’t see

Break my bones for all I care

Just don’t break this heart whose feelings it shared

Posted in original

The Streets

The streets are full of people

walking, running, laughing, others just mum

while everyone is busy with their own life

an old man lies on the street

curled up on the side, in this cold dark night

his white hair showing under the street lamp

his skin against his aged bones

he’s nothing but skin and bones


They walk past him, not caring, not daring to care

either afraid to or plainly just nothing

I observe from afar, divided by the glass of the window

as the rain slowly trickles down

the old man tugs on his ragged clothes

and torn up sack of a blanket

he shivers, he’s cold

yet he lay there still, not moving much

perhaps too cold to

perhaps too sleepy to

perhaps too weary to

or too hungry to move


A saint I am not but a bowl of soup in hand

would surely fill his stomach and soul

but before I could get up from where I was seated

a good Samaritan came

covered the old man with warm blanket

and gave him food to eat

she took him to a shelter afterward,

not far from where he lay


The streets are harsh

difficult to survive

but that night it was different

that night it became warm

warmer than a summer’s evening

Posted in favorites

Growing Old

What is it to grow old?
Is it to lose the glory of the form,
The lustre of the eye?
Is it for beauty to forego her wreath?
Yes, but not for this alone.

Is it to feel our strength—
Not our bloom only, but our strength—decay?
Is it to feel each limb
Grow stiffer, every function less exact,
Each nerve more weakly strung?

Yes, this, and more! but not,
Ah, ’tis not what in youth we dreamed ‘t would be!
‘Tis not to have our life
Mellowed and softened as with sunset-glow,
A golden day’s decline!

‘Tis not to see the world
As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes,
And heart profoundly stirred;
And weep, and feel the fulness of the past,
The years that are no more!

It is to spend long days
And not once feel that we were ever young.
It is to add, immured
In the hot prison of the present, month
To month with weary pain.

It is to suffer this,
And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel:
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change,
But no emotion—none.

It is—last stage of all—
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.

– Matthew Arnold