Writing

What is hope?

A thought?

A feeling?

More?

No one understands because

no one

can.
 

Hope is fluid

always moving.

Too slippery to grasp

for long.

Cold, unforgiving wind batters against my patchwork coat as I shove my way through crowded streets. Tiny snowflakes glitter on my eyelashes and my breath freezes as soon as it hits the air.

Fingers click against the keys.

My head whirls with stories

of a fantasy world.
 

I urge my fingers faster

as ideas crowd for a chance

to get out onto paper.

Letters scramble

Yesterday,

He said he loved her.

Yesterday,

He kissed her cheek,

And said she was a star.

Today,

He said he hated her.

Popularity,

Is just like

A house of cards-

You work so hard

To build it up.

Only to have it fall to peices

When you say the wrong thing

Look at me, 

Very quite popular.

Everybody sees me

But nobody knows the real me.

The facade I put on,

I just want them to like me