Hope is the fleeting thought
in the morning before the world hits you
and youíre a clean slate for positive thinking.
Itís that vague recollection of enjoyment
that makes you smile despite yourself
so you can wish away those silly thoughts
before the cynic in you slams the door.
Itís that clumpy film that crosses your vision
when you view the sky at noon.
Itís drifting there, up and around
your shifty eyes so you canít quite catch it.
And you know itís making good time
across miles of everything Ė fighting all the way.
You canít decide where it must be going
because god knows, you donít believe in him
and you wonder if it works both ways
If omniscient beings hold grudges
Hope is the critic in you, questioning everything
and itís the part of you that goes first
when emotions are high, and you drop subjectivism
like itís the tissue you just blew your nose into.
Itís the dream you just missed
when the alarm sounds, harsh and thin
and itís the towel, sopping up your sweat
when you tell yourself youíre only being realistic.
Itís the patronizing smirk of your best friend
when you proclaim that youíve once again experienced
ďThe worst day everĒ
and itís the shivering comment you hiss
because why else, except in hope, would you worry with his smugness?
Itís good at disguising in the tiny hearts of intellectuals
because we most of all need to be fooled.
behind our every contemptuous rant and informed opinion
there hope is, second guessing same as we do.