I’ve never felt more broken than I do in this moment.

They call me Hope but I am nothing if not a pile shattered glass scattered across thick blades of drying grass

Embedded in heaps of mud and piles of ****

Unfixable.

no glue is strong enough to hold me together if anyone is willing to go as deep as to pull the pieces from the vile mess beneath it.

No one.



Entire communities that I will never be part of because they’re  owed better than me

An entire society that I don’t belong to because I’ll never be enough for it to accept me.

A whole life that I will never deserve.

They call me Hope…

I call me hope


because it’s the closest I’ll ever get to knowing any.

I think theres a certain level of self hatred that exists.

It’s very specific but its also the worst kind.

It’s a kind where you disliked one thing at first. Normally because your realised that one thing didn’t seem to you as it does on people.

Or because someone pointed out its difference, saw your unease and then turned it against you.

Either way you didn’t always dislike that thing.
You were uneasy and confused.

The more you pondered on it however, the more uneasy you became, then the unease became dislike.

And at dislike you start to notice it without even wanting to. You see something it you zone out and it invades your mind for a brief moment but then it becomes harder and harder to let go of.

Then the dislike became hatred.

Suddenly that thing is all that you think about. Every time that you’re around people it’s all that you see or hear or feel.

If you’re lucky, for a few fleeting moments, you feel something alternative.

You don’t feel the hate the same way, you let yourself believe it’s all in your head, and you see the part of you as it looked before, as it sounded as it felt, and you dare to call it normal and in extraordinary cases

beautiful.

That is until something snatches you by the throat and plunges you face first into the hatred again.
But it’s that specific type of hatred.

You are suffocated by the thoughts of how that part of you shouldn’t exist.

What do I do if it isn’t a part of me though?

What if it’s all of me, all the time, every single ******* moment?

Freedom was a writer from whom his name was stolen.
That of whom left his breaths on every page he wrote the meanings of which, were torn from his chest.
He was the fruit of his works,
of his labour.
And was the whistle in the wind that blew that blew through silence.
Hanging tastefully in the air.
A sweet sensation.
Who grew from dismality, was named and married to him as Hope.
The growths of their union,
the words of the tormented writer and the melodies of the candied breeze,
were songs of story sung for acres.
And who’s dawned legacies are the working times of their lovechildren,
Emancipation and Liberty.

Mirror.
I've been talking to the mirror.
Been looking at the mirror.
The mirror of me.

Mirror.
I see the tears on your cheeks.
The red on your skin.
The mirror of me.

Dear mirror,
The cracks as you scream,
The pain that you're in.
Is a mirror of me.

Oh mirror,
I saw you on the street
The rain your only sheen
Was a mirror of me.

So mirror,
The claws at your cheek
The deep open screams
The mirror of me.

Hear me when I speak
The reds and blues I see.
The dark that your making.
Is no mirror of me.

Mirror
I hope you can hear me.
The lies that I've seen.
Never a mirror,

Of me.

Thousands.

A fable of freedom and loss is the story that has been told a thousand times. But is that to say that the same words passed between a thousand men a thousand times over a thousand years are worth a thousand times less?

That the meaning is a thousand times lost?
Barely whispers on an open stage.

That if a thousand by a thousand men plant a thousand trees in a thousand meadows the earth would be a thousand by a thousand trees richer, but if a single man were to plant a thousand trees in a thousand meadows the earth would be a one man poorer.

Freedom was a man who never knew his name, he was the man who's story was told over those thousand years and he is the man who is making the earth a thousand by a thousand trees richer.