Hope is often used as a term to wish for something.

But hope is broad.

Vague.

Some people hope to win a sports game.

Or maybe to get something for their birthday.

And some people hope for more than that.

Some people hope for hope

when it’s hard for them to believe.

In anything.

Anyone.

And in today’s world,

hope has a lesser meaning

because it seems like the only thing we can do.

Hope for a better world,

hope for change,

hope as hard as we possibly can.

Hope like it will happen,

because we know it can happen.

We can make it happen.

Wish upon every star,

every time the clock strikes 11:11.

Because we have hope.

Because we believe

in fixing every atrocity

we hoped would never occur.

We hoped for times nothing like these,

but for peace, and 

for unity.

We hoped for a warless earth,

for an end to violence,

end to hate.

But the hope is not what brings us down,

what forms the void in our hearts,

separates our thoughts, angry, confused, sad, and vengeful.

No, it is the world that does these things.

Hope is what keeps the world trembling instead of crumbling

because it is the only thing keeping life alive.

Hope is what prevents those thoughts from 

coming to life,

fusing them into rage that sends tears 

sliding down our faces,

staining it with the sticky, 

burning feeling of despair.

We have hope that this will end,

that the fire will be 

starved.

That the world will become 

known for its hope.

Hope is often used as a term to wish for something.

I hope for hope.

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

Does it?

Is our pride in a land of freedom and bravery? 

Because every time I hear a story on the news,

A new death, 

A new shooting,

A new murder,

I can't help but become more hesitant to say I am an American with happiness and pride,

Because how could I be happy to reside,

In a place so filled with hatred, judgement, and disgrace,

And the violence that so many choose to embrace,

We are killing our own kind,

How dare you take the lives of a sister or a brother? 

What will it take for you to look into the eyes of another,

And see them as a living person, 

And nothing else? 

For when God said to love your neighbor,

He did not specify what they would look like,

Or what they would sound like,

Or where they would come from,

He simply said to love them. 

So the star spangled banner may yet wave,

But not over the land of the free,

But a home still learning to be brave. 

To be loved by a poet is to live forever

Therefore, to be a poet is to be a god

To be a poet is to carve cathedrals out of words

To worship the language that builds your life

To kneel before humanity and beg for

Forgiveness

Truth

Beauty

Solace

To pray to whatever god you believe in

to give you more time to experience this world

Filled with poetry

Filled with muses

To find a poem in every passing moment

Every tree of which you press your hand into its bark

In every wave

Every ripple

Every stranger you see on the street

In your friend's laughter

In the stars

All of life becomes your muse

To be a poet is to be a god

Experiencing the world as you made it

And walking among your creations

With awe and with pain

That you only get this one short life

To write the world you created

To be a poet is to bleed

To stick yourself on the thorns of a flower

And call the red beauty

And call it poetry

To be a poet is to open your mind

And unleash even your most personal thoughts

To be a poet is to sacrifice yourself

Upon an altar of metaphor

To be the sacrificial lamb

To be the priest

To be each stone

That builds the walls of your church

To be a poet is to inhabit everything in this universe

To be a poet is to be a god experiencing mortality

I hate that 
Icarus gets all the ink. 
His hubris penned down for eternity while 
His scorched flesh watched on. 

But never is it Daedalus. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus. 

He whose only thought is of memory, 
Of feathers floating on the surface of majestic blue waters, 
Waves moving like music. 

And perhaps now he wishes he hadn't left. 
Perhaps he wishes for prison, for confinement to the grey brick walls 
Would surely be more comfort than the prison of his mind. 

And he might sometimes still walk the sandy shores and miss it all. 
His son, his wings, his flaws. 
And still he waits. 
Daedalus, who waits. 
The waiting Daedalus. 

     There is something about her, thought the universe as it sat perched upon the cliff of infinity.

     And indeed, there was something about this girl, in her wavy golden hair and the stars sparkling in the depths of brown pooling in her eyes; in her silk yellow dress and perfect white tights, and the way her gaze traced both the sky and the path on which she tread.  In her chest beat a heart with pockets bearing holes; what were expected to safely keep love tucked into her possession were torn and bleeding, a trail of honey-like sweetness left in her wake.  The birds and beetles would come out from time to time, feeding on the kindness left sparkling by the trail, and poets would chase her with ink wells extended to catch the love as it spilled.

     Her cheeks bore constellations inked in the color of sand soaked with seawater, and were often stained with the sunset, which, too, bled its hope across the sky and onto sheets of blank paper.  She was brilliant.

     And as her dress collected dirt and grime, she would still twirl in it, and plant wildflowers in the pockets of soil that flew off as she danced.  Those wildflowers would sprout and grow to the watering of her tears, and grow to face the yellow of her dress as the sun.  They would grow into imperfections too perfect for bouquets in crystal vases but just sweet enough for a random act of kindness.

     She began to cry, though, for her heart began to clink empty in the wind, hollow and as blown glass.  As dusk swallowed her, she tucked herself into a drained pocket of her heart, gray and cold as stone.  Her once perfect tights were perhaps too perfect for the world, and bore holes through which the sun burned her skin.  Her hair was knotted from dancing with the earth that refused to dance with her, and her eyes were faded.

     She, perhaps, was too perfect for the world.

     And yet, she rose once more to the stars fading into brightness, toes at the edge of a cliff outlooking the sea.  She thought, as she stood there with her dress fluttering in the wind, about all those who had traced her path across sheets of blank paper, and she couldn't help but feel a flicker within her chest:

     Her chest, in which beat a heart with pockets bearing holes.  She was a filter, it seemed, in which love filled her heart but drained into the souls of others rather than holding it close.

     Perhaps, she realized at once, she could hold close the souls.

     And as she stood beneath the stars deepening into the boldness of her freckles, her heart, which still bore holes, was filled.

      There is something about her, thought the universe as it perched upon the cliff of infinity, for with every drop of love she loses, she herself becomes even more infinite.

Just so you know, 

You are not a number, 

you are not a digit out of 10 

or a rating, 

you are not a GPA 

and you are not what you got on the SAT, 

you are not a 1500 meter time 

or a percentile 

or a rank

You 

are not 

a number

You cannot be defined by a total on a scale

 your worth cannot be measured in inches  

and a symbol on a paper does not decide your importance

Because 

You are SO much more than a number

You are the light that shines behind your eyes

You are a source of beauty and love,

You are a heart that beats

And lungs that breathe 

and so I am POSITIVE you are someone

who REALLY matters

So please,

let neither grades nor seconds

nor inches nor pounds

nor anything else

take away from your infinite value

I don't know who needs to hear this, but there are times I definitely do. Comparison is the thief of joy so don't let it take yours.

The sun sets. 

A stunning watercolor effect paints the sky beautiful warm colors. 

A last hurrah before disappearing over the horizon. 

Then, 

there is moonrise. 

Not as flashy as the sunrise,

but just as beautiful in its own way.

A light in the otherwise darkness of night.

Accompanied by a never-ending sea of stars.

Looking up you feel so small in this big world.

Yet you also feel a weird calm fall over you.

The moon is smaller yet it moves the tides.

Both celestial bodies,

living in tandem.

Yin and Yang.

Sun and Moon.

An endless cycle:

Sunrise, Moonset.

Sunset, Moonrise.

Every day.

As true as the ground beneath your feet.

And eating cherries in the morning, I think about Icarus 

Young, Golden, Brilliant Boy 

So overcome by the freedom 

So overcome by the ecstasy of it all 

That he forgot to heed his father’s warnings 

That he felt the sea-spray 

That he felt the sun’s sharp rays on his back

And he smiled

And he flew

And he called back to his father

Zooming ahead

This way and that

``We’re going home! ``

Home

Home 

Home

And the cherry juice running down my hand 

reminds me of the wax

Melting, bubbling, burning

Turning his pale skin red

Dripping and falling

Into the blue sea below

Wax, from the candles

That had been the only source of light

In the dark windowless tower

Wax, that held together each feather 

Each feather that gifted him the ability to fly

To soar

To reach out and touch Apollo’s sun

And, spitting out the pit of the cherry, I think about

The pit in Icarus's stomach

As he realizes it was too late

As the far away blue grows closer and closer

As he can see the ripples

As he can see the end of his freedom

So limited, so short

But my sweet Icarus

Never felt fear

Never felt free

In the labyrinth, He was trapped by his father’s ambition

In the tower, Trapped by King Minos

Trapped by all of Crete

I have heard people say that Icarus laughed

As he was plummeting through the sky, he laughed

And who am I to say he didn’t

Who am I to say that sun-drunk Icarus

Reckless and at last uncontained

Didn’t spend his last moments

The sea’s arms reaching up for him

Howling

Screaming joy and triumph

``I flew! I flew!``

And he knew that

Despite the fact that he flew

He was falling

And as I reach for the last cherry in the bowl

Icarus reaches up his arms in a last moment

Before the sea receives him

Before he is pulled under the waves

His father, watching

Screaming

Crying

But in that moment, Icarus was not his father’s son

In the moment of the flight, he was Apollo’s 

In the sea, Poseidon's

Soon, he would be Hades’s

So, like the cherry stem I roll and twist between my fingers

Icarus rolled and twisted in the waves

The last dying breath taken from his lungs

His body now sinking

Sea-claimed, Sky-hungry boy

Now void of his free falling flight

Maybe, he could have lived

Grew old in the tower

Or maybe he could have fought

That all-consuming urge

That freedom

Maybe he wouldn’t have reached out and touched Apollo

But he would

Oh, but he would

All over again, given the choice

He would have chosen that last dying flight

The fall

And so Icarus

God-touched

Light-chasing

Sun-drunk Icarus

Flew

Flew

Flew

And fell

And I smile

thinking of my Freedom-mad boy

And I forget about the cherries

And their juice staining my hands