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S.R Sorrows Poem
Why couldn’t we see the pain in his eyes?
If only we knew the truth behind the lies.
He was plummeting fast on life’s violent ride,
With nowhere for love in his heart to hide.
This wasn’t living — this was decay.
A soul eroding, day by day.
Seeing his own death as the only gift,
Praying the weight on his chest would lift.
He poisoned himself to numb the screams,
But the voices clawed deeper, tearing his dreams.
No silence. No peace. No way to cope —
Just shattered glass where there once was hope.
The moment arrived; the choice was made.
No light to follow, no one to save.
He closed his eyes, surrendered breath,
And let himself fall into the arms of death.
His body swung in the blackened night —
No angels came. No holy light.
Only stillness.
Only cold.
Only air thick with stories that won’t be told.
And now we stare at the space he left behind,
Wishing we’d seen the storm inside.
Because the cruelest truth we’ve come to know —
Is how silent a scream can be
Before it lets go.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
FOUR YEARS, STILL STANDING
Four years bleeding, four years bruised,
Four years fighting, four years used.
Carried the weight till my back near broke,
Choked on silence, swallowed the smoke.
Four years of bills and sleepless nights,
Four years swinging at shadows and lies.
Loved and lost, trust turned thin,
Hiding the chaos I’m drowning in.
Four years scraping, hand to mouth,
Hope ran dry, compassion went south.
Friends fell off, love went cold,
Heart grew heavy, soul grew old.
I’ve been broke in ways that cash can’t show,
Held my tongue when I should’ve said “no.”
Smiled for my kids when I felt like dirt,
Carried their laughter to mask my hurt.
Four years clawing through grit and glass,
Watching the good days fade too fast.
But I kept walking, through storm and flame —
Bent but breathing, still in the game.
If pain’s a test, I’ve passed in blood,
Built from bone and fire and mud.
They thought I’d quit, thought I’d stay down —
But my scars are medals, my battle crown.
Four years wrecked me, left me raw —
But I’m still standing, ready for more.
The fight’s not done, the war’s not through —
I’ve bled for four years… I’ll bleed for two.
Every scar is a map of the war I survived,
proof I’m still breathing where others have died.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2025
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S.R Sorrows Poem
It’s not realism —
It’s racism.
A whole force bleeding on the pavement
Like Stephen.
Uniforms draped in corruption,
Badges shining with injustice.
And they wonder
Why we don’t trust this?
Because every headline bleeds the same.
Another name.
Another face.
Another life reduced
To a hashtag case.
It’s just colour.
It’s just skin.
But they weigh it
Like it’s guilt,
Like it’s sin.
A man should be judged
By the fire inside,
By the values he lives,
By the truth he can’t hide —
Not his accent,
Not the shade of his skin,
Not the country
His parents were born in.
But here we are,
Decades deep in denial,
Marching in circles,
Adding names to the pile.
And they tell us to calm down.
To “move on.”
But how do you heal
When the wound stays open,
And the bleeding goes on?
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
Dedicated to a dear friend, who felt let down by a nation he helped to protect, and was honoured to serve.
An innocent mind — ripped apart,
Like a Ripper’s victim,
Bleeding in the dark.
The light drains from his eyes;
He’s losing his spark.
This is the mindset
Of a tortured soldier —
The war is over,
But the battle smolders.
His spirit is lost,
Fear still clings,
Every day haunted
By death’s cold wings.
He’s tired of wrestling his inner beast.
Dark thoughts pierce him —
Judas at the final feast.
The beast impales him;
No hope, no release.
Inside he’s shattered,
His soul — deceased.
His emotions rot beneath his skin.
Familiar pieces leaking out within.
A face with no joy,
A heart drowned in sin —
Only twenty years old,
And missing a limb.
A boy who once bloomed,
Petals soft as a rose —
Now bleeds hate and despair
Through every vein he knows.
Outside he’s harmless,
Inside he’s cold —
A condemned man
Whose heart won’t grow old.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
Spreading peace, love and unity
From its roots in Jamaica
To each and every community.
This is reggae music —
The type of music that lifts your spirits,
The type of music that makes you want to smile
Every time you feel it.
So with the heart of a lion,
Stay forever ready,
Ready to move to a beat
So sweet and rock steady,
A beat sending out its good vibes
To each and everybody —
Born from the struggle,
Carved out of pain,
A song of survival
That still breaks the chains.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
A two-faced pacifist,
Preaching peace,
While waging war
In your own premises.
Quoting lines
From Genesis,
Claiming he’s holier than thou —
Hiding the rot
That leaks from his mouth.
Swears he’s ridding the world of evil,
But behind closed doors
He’s wicked, deceitful —
Swaggering proud,
Drenched in arrogance.
Look in his eyes…
You can see the Devil dance.
And when the Devil dances,
Hope turns to ash —
A saint in the daylight,
A serpent in the black.
Your prayers can’t save you;
He’s already inside —
Smiling,
While heaven and hell collide.
And the last thing you hear is your own heartbeat… stopping.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
It came on with the quickness,
Stuck in a body full of sickness —
On your knees, praying for forgiveness.
But that’s not likely when you took this in vain;
Many roads ahead of you — they all lead to pain.
Given the chance, you’d refill your veins,
Cold shakes and withdrawals scrambling your brain.
Feeling like Adam in a false Garden of Eden,
Surrounded by temptation — and temptation’s a demon.
“Go on, just take one little bite…
It won’t hurt you, it will be alright.”
Hitting your body harder than a thunderous smite.
It’s an addiction that will destroy your whole life,
Leave you living a lonely existence,
With a head full of cravings,
And marriage to its persistence.
But this altar you kneel at is carved out of bone —
Your veins are its temple,
Your flesh is its throne.
And when you beg for mercy,
No god will remain —
Just the echo of needles
Whispering your name.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
(“Too many voices. None of them mine.”)
I’m in a state of delusion —
What does any of this mean?
I hide behind my smile
So the real me can’t be seen.
I won’t look at the sky —
It terrifies me to death.
When I do, I hyperventilate,
Can’t catch my breath.
My moods swing up,
Then crash back down.
This isn’t me.
It came from nowhere —
Now these voices won’t set me free.
I keep asking myself,
What is life all about?
My mind feels twisted —
Am I tripping out?
Someone… please… help me.
Am I going mad?
One minute I’m happy,
The next… I’m sad.
I wake to a world that don’t make sense,
each thought a blade through a paper fence.
Faces blur, their voices bite,
days melt into the same long night.
My mind’s a maze with the exits sealed,
every step’s another wound unhealed.
Truth and lies both taste the same,
and I’m the punchline with no name.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2018
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S.R Sorrows Poem
Colourful flags of the Caribbean
Flood London’s streets,
Vibrations from the sound systems
Pounding heavy reggae beats.
Smells of curry goat
And jerk chicken in the air,
Smoke rising from the barbecues,
Feathers tangled in dancers’ hair.
Men and women whining,
Drums echo through the crowd,
The city shakes with unity —
Culture roaring loud.
Everyone’s united,
Dancing, chanting proud,
Sipping cups of homemade sorrel,
Ancestral voices shouting loud.
And in the bass, in the blaze, in the laughter and cheer,
Echoes of struggle that carried them here —
Chains turned to rhythms, pain turned to song,
A people still marching, still dancing, still strong.
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2023
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S.R Sorrows Poem
Representing a nation
Too consumed by war and invasion,
Who neglect the homeless —
Leaving them sleeping on a box
On the floor of a railway station.
No hopes, no dreams, no money,
Struggling to remember a time
Their stomachs weren’t hollow and hungry,
Wishing back to when they were babies,
Cradled tight in the arms of the ladies who raised these.
For them, life’s not funny —
So down, so depressed,
No help from the government,
Not one ounce of interest.
For them every night spent is frightened,
But they’re sole survivors —
The only warmth they find
Is in the flickering flames of their lighters.
We’re all represented by people
Too consumed by tax and inflation,
A government who’s dragged millions
Into financial frustration.
A country so hungry,
It’s dying of starvation —
A nation that’s crippled,
Ruled by men who are fickle,
And I thought mankind
Was supposed to be civil
Copyright © S.R SORROWS | Year Posted 2023
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