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I've heard it said,
'very ill people are vulnerable to hope',
and I could see the luminescent membrane
stretching between you and your pain,

and I could nearly taste the texture of
black and brackish blood smeared across your cracked, dry lips
so I believe it.

Will you free all, speak of the unsecret?
That twisting, dark and silent grip
while grains like sand and deepest dark pour in through the corners
clogging up your ears and nose and mouth,
turning weave and sweat into an early earthy gate.

Should you not it matters
naught, for all your effort lies in vain vanishing depth-
that heavy weighing, the lightest lack of breath,
as when you are scarcely breathing for fear of disappointment
a signing off in tears for debt.

You are the sickest of the sick
the least of these and every other plucked, skinned, unprepared
foul and fear and wanting loathing,
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Submitted on September 13, 2009

46 sec read

Amythest Margaret Theresa Colleen Johnson Claim this poet

Eighteen years ago, winter melted into spring and a girl-child was born to a young woman with a head full of blond hair and absolutely no clue.The child was a curiosity indeed, born with a typewriter in the place of a brain and a song in the place of a soul. Her tiny pink hands were stained with paint from the moment she blinked into the artificial light and forever after there would be a question between her lips, as stubborn as a baby with its pacifier or a habitual chain smoker and her cigarette.The woman with no clue became, naturally, her mother, who would be pestered for many years after (indeed, until this very day) with a constant bubbling stream of how-what-where-who-when and whys.The small girl-child somehow managed to scramble, mostly whole and only damaged in part, through life. The girl-child became a small young woman. That young woman looked back on every question, dream and story she had ever collected, every shining bright or doubly painful experience. Then she decided that she would shed a little understanding on the dark corners in herself while posing her very favorite questions for everyone else.And so, when the time was ten minutes late of 'just right', the young woman sat down amidst the shelves upon shelves of her tangled, haphazard, precariously stacked thoughts. With less care than necessary she began to plunk away at that typewriter and something like poetry was born. more…

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    "hope" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 27 Nov. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/73706/hope>.

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