The Death of Hope

The Death of Hope


fear broke into my day before I had the chance,

NO choice,

comprehension just a mild rationalization at best,

I'm nothing but a con artist fighting a revolution against truth,

I preach coaxing fault with such sadistic grace, 

however, the second restitution shows up for its entitled share,

I flee the scene only to break a just parole,

showing obvious lack of character,

I realized that I'd temporarily eluded,

what I believed the consequences to be, 

easy like Velcro shoes on Sunday, I’m a coward again, 

engulfed with unspeakable regret,

my hands out of habit smash down through my pants pockets,

 on route towards that orange bottle that rattles,


"Hey reader, Yes, I am fucking talking to you!"


how do you cope with self doubt?

do you handle the grit of it in a timely fashion?

how long does it take you? 

are you confident with your evaluation into proactive deliberation?

how often do you stay in confusion's playground?

do you ride the Tilt-a-Whirl of selfish spinning?

I do.

I am.

I am doing it now.

perching high above humility, I watched her cry,

morning her habitual honesty,

there she weeps, one arm covering her eyes,

the other raised limply above her head,

holding her hand into a windless sky,

her disease grieving out loud,

a disease I wished I was strong enough to endure,

 she and I both knew we were about to witness the death of hope,  

why is humility even here? 

this madly functioning fucked up theme park is where I live, 

yet there's no need for her to be here,

I don't need to see her right now,

I don't need to feel for her,

I can't help. I don't know how!

I hate her for doing this to me,

I hate her even more for not knowing I'm here,

because even though she thinks she's alone with no  S.O.S. on the way, 

I am here, just with no voice,

I know what the definition of help is,

though I don’t know what verb to compliment it with,

I cannot contribute action,

I feel like cold soup, offering nothing but a disgusting gesture, 

she's not really alone,  even on her most desperate day,

she isn't as alone as I am,

decapitated black crows brand imagery into the wallpaper of my taste,

screeching bloody acapellas,

darting towards my half dissolved awareness,

panic pulverizes the side of my tender canoe,

wounded too deep to tip, drowning in no particular order,

and even when faced with imminent death, I still don't know the details,

a death of confused impermanence,

after 30 fucking years I know, 

I know my anger will rape the crowds potential,

I know my tears will dry a red sun,

and I know exactly where I wish I wasn't


By: Bryan Matthew Boutwell /