Poems about worry

I worry all the time,
Not for what I've done or did or even may of done,
But for the people I care about,
When someone says don't worry Lu,
I worry even more,

It's like it's an in built programme that dosnt turn off or down it's set on constant,

And really for me if I worry about you,
It means I care,
It may be annoying but hell,
It's better than me
Not Being,
There.

I remember with fondness the last worry worth the strain.
It was between the advertisements bookending the
Bus stop bench, and I watched a woman no older than I
Cross the street without looking both ways.

I panicked despite there being no speed toward her, and
As rapid as no cars were traveling my heart was ecstatic.
At her carelessness. Peered behind turtle-shell bifocals,
And they weren't rimmed thickly; I hate those. They were
Wired, and she tugged my heartstrings. With her joy in pacing.

She met my eyes with her glasses and peered strangely toward me,
A stranger watching her with a knitted brow as thick as the scarf
She wore. She paused on the curb a foot about to lift her up, I
Think I scared her. Her lips tugged as her hands stuffed themselves
Into her tiny pockets. What are pockets used for on women's pants?
Surely not to look nervous and pull away from the world as mine are.

I almost begged the question to ask for her name, or to be a gentleman
And help her cross the stone-few-inch-threshold that seemed to have
Stranded her as wide river from her destination; then I realized if she
Could cross the raging streets without the help of even reassurance
Then I was nothing but another obstacle.

She smiled.
I stared.
And off she went, and I watched her still.
I thought, "If she turns around to look at me, I'll wave her down.
I'll ask her name. I'll pour myself out,
Even foolishly. "
Her grey knitted cap, of which I am sure hid a knot worth untying,
Turned and I saw her profile as her peripheral scoped the last remnants of her
Slowly-forgetting-me-memory.
I lifted my hand toward her, and flicked my wrist.
She stopped.
And so did my heart.

Not sure what I'm doing today

Got money in my pocket

Probably throw it away

It's all the money I've got

That gnaws at my brain

But the stern compulsion remains the same

You worry about what they'll think
And you worry about making the baseball team
You worry about all of the small things
You worry about plans and you worry about dreams
You worry about who you're gonna ask to the prom
And you worry about getting the answer wrong
You worry about your friends who are in a fight
And you worry about your plans for friday night
You worry about getting into your dream school
You worry about being popular and even cool
You worry about money and grades too
Oh how i wish i could worry like you
You see my worries are not the same
I don't worry about fun i don't worry about games
I worry about when my next meal will be
And i worry about never learning to read
I worry about my mom's disease
I worry about it being passed down to me
I worry about my sister being cold at night
And i worry about my village breaking out in a fight
I worry about all these aches and these pains
And i worry about water wasting down a drain
I worry about never getting my journey
And i worry if i'll still be here in the morning
So next time life has brought you to your knees
Remember this poem and think about me
No matter how bad things seem from your view
There's someone out there who wishes
They could worry like you.

With pride I watch as destruction falls
As if a small part of the darkness in me
May be related to the greater power,
I relish my pain and hope for more
While still hoping for normalcy.
A contradictory being is all I've ever been,
But I wouldn't have it any other way...

The treacherous glory
Of the blood stained men -
Those who do not even worry
And have done and do and will do less
Than what they ever could or can
Do.

You broke me.
But, don't worry,
I'll fix myself

For you

Wonder, worry, anticipation, fear.
Like a tight rope walker, I stand on a razor thin wire between too pushy and too distant. Too nosy or indifferent.
You're finally opening up again, like a flower in the spring, but my over watering or cold spurs could kill it.
I have this bad habit of overthinking and seeing every bad mood-as my fault, or something I can totally fix.
How do I tell you I still want to give you the world, even if I'm not it?
I want you to be happy, even if it's not with me.
From day one I've wanted to protect you from the horrors of this cruel world and that hasn't changed my delicate flower.
So a tight rope walker I'll stay, until I topple.