“Hope is a thing with feathers, “ she said,
However, I am not so sure
I carry my hope piggyback style
And the weight’s a chore to endure.
My hungry hope eats everything
It’s the least picky eater I know
So carrying it around all day
It has nothing to do but grow.
Sometimes it gets too heavy for me
And I drag it by the feet
At times I rest with my head on its chest
Other times, I’ll admit my defeat
While carrying Hope around all day
It burns a hole and sears
It scratches at your sanity
And it preys on your worst fears
Hope’s words are dipped in poison
On every inch there is a thorn
But if you swallow every word of Hope’s
Your passion is reborn
Hope is not a thing with feathers.
Dickinson was wrong
I’ve waited for so long.