hope is a thing with feathers, you say.
i met it, once.
it's repulsive.
grotesque.
hideous.
it sings too, apparently.
cawing loudly,
off-key,
at 3 o'clock in the morning.
in storms, you say,
it's the sweetest.
in storms, i've watched it
get horribly philosophical
caw-caw-cawing,
shrieking,
croaking,
that to give up was
to fail.
stupid little trees
speak to me
through their whispering leaves
they seem to grieve.
stupid little clouds
cry so damn loud
through snow and rain
I’ve been told,
That I have a gift for words,
Here lie the depressing thoughts,
I keep hiding in my metaphors
so no one guesses they're mine.
I was running.
Because that’s all I could do.
Run.
My dirty red converse slapped the pavement.
I was at the park now.
Faster
Faster I ran.
Past tourists,
Past benches dedicated to the lost,
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