My lungs are two clenched fists,
Beating against my chest;
They refuse to release;
To give the fight a rest.

Sent a delegation --
A last, desperate attempt.
Oxygen still denied;
Still refuse to relent.

Now desperate for relief,
I raise a white flag high.
The fists demand one thing:
I surrender my life.

Can hopes be destroyed if they are microscopic to the point of invisibility? What if they stop being created altogether?

Maybe hopes cannot be created nor destroyed; they just exist -- attach onto you, like parasites, and, once you realize they have been there, hoarding your energy, they leave you, leaving a hole in your soul.

However, quite possibly, these parasitic hopes do not leave us; maybe, they, like all matter, merely change form -- the hole in our souls becoming a dwelling for this new form: utter despair.

Anxiety and depression
collide within me;
a tornado raging,
stealing my air,
pulling me in.
The debris of my life,
swirling around,
destroying everything
threatens my death.
Fight or flight --
my legs are tired;
my fists are weak.
The storm grows black;
I cannot move.