In my Gram's kitchen,

behind the table,

there is a butter barrel.

One of those big wooden ones you would use in the 1950's.

5 summers ago,

my brother made butter in that barrel.

hope is a messy thing.

it destroys all forms of happiness.

but it lifts you up in your worst nightmares.

I wish I could say hope is for everyone.

but it isn't.

in time,

we evolved into 

racist,

i googled what love meant today.

i don't think anyone loves me.

wikipedia said that