Hope, Don't Let Me Down 03-30-2010
So, there I was,
the blithering mess,
the quivering boy,
left to my devices,
of self destruct and loathing,
not knowing if I could walk again,
let alone stand.
Then enters desperation,
not the kind that you think,
the one dripping promises
of escape from the pain,
the hurt of a lifetime,
from lack of defenses
not wielded in years.
Begrudgingly lifted
the haphazard shields,
so awkward and clumsy,
too heavy a burden
for simultaneously wanting,
hoping,
to let someone in.
The shields were lose bandages,
a covering of sorts,
still sloppily placed
with gaps left intentional
to feel the sting of air,
to know it was real,
to know I was still alive
The hope was an ointment,
a temporary crutch,
turned addiction to the dream,
the sweet flavor of 'what if?',
got drunk-sick off its prospect,
hung-over from awaiting,
still I nursed at the bottle.
I know there is an answer
laced at the bottom
of the swagger decanter,
I drink of the nectar,
and spit of the bitter,
a race to the bottom,
a race to salvation.
My hope in a bottle,
my hope in another,
my hope in myself,
my hope of the future,
my hope in hope itself.
Hope, don't let me down,
and I promise to do the same.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s funny how I have repetitively referenced drinking and alcohol in some of my more recent poems. Thinking back on them, I can see the allure and similarities. To crave for and find joy in something that could potentially hurt you or let you down seems to be my biggest recent struggles; the disappointment that would come from the source of my greatest happiness that could pose a threat to me as my greatest woe. Although I’m not an alcoholic, I can comparatively see the ongoing struggle within between oneself and the bottle. My figurative bottle: the never-ending chase for the elusive content and happiness and wrestling to keep hope alive against possible failure. Doesn’t seem like much…
... but then again, neither does a shot.
... but then again, neither does a shot.
