Worn But Waiting Poem by Angela Peniska

In the corner where the shadows play,
I sit and watch another day.
My seams are loose, my colors pale,
But oh, the stories I could tell.
My button eyes have grown a little cloudy now
from all the tears they've witnessed falling down.
These paws are frayed, my stuffing thin in places,
but still I hold the weight of worried faces.
The room feels heavy when the morning comes,
and sunshine seems too bright for tender ones.
I feel their heartbeat racing through the night
while counting sheep that never come to sight.
Remember when we'd conquer dragons bold
and build our castles out of marigold?
We'd sail on bedsheets to the farthest shore
where nothing hurt and magic filled each door.
But growing up means learning how to ache,
and some adventures are too much to take.
So now we journey to quieter lands
where healing happens held in gentle hands.
Sometimes I wonder if I feel too much
for something sewn together with such touch.
Do other bears absorb the pain this way,
or am I different in some broken way?
But maybe being tender isn't wrong—
maybe that's what's made our love so strong.
In a world that tells us to be tough and steel,
perhaps it's brave to simply let us feel.
There are nights when hope seems paper-thin,
when darkness whispers that we'll never win.
But even in the deepest, longest night,
I've seen small stars still burning with their light.
I'm worn but waiting, weathered but believing
that love's the only antidote to grieving.
There's light that dances, even when it's small—
sometimes that's enough to heal it all.
My button eyes may cloud, my fur may fade,
but love like ours is never just afraid.
Tomorrow's coming with its gentle grace,
and I'll be here, worn but in my place.