Borrowed Hope

I wrote these words in the quiet of a morning when the weight of life pressed hard, when even small things felt like too much to bear. I leave them here not as polished lines, but as an honest breath - raw, unguarded, true.

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Who am I
I woke this morning wondering who had I become.

This anger just seems to linger and test.
What had happened to be my best
Where had that vibrant me gone
Is it lost beneath a stone

Once I knew each breath
Now I only know the stretch
The endless yearning of years gone by
Like the unfurling of a butterfly

Time has no restraints they say
But little did they know it does not stay
It marches on like a shadow to steal away
Those moments that often want to play

Life is no longer like a burning fire
Each day I regret that desire
To let go and be whom I like
But that feeling left on a bike

I sit here and contemplate
My bone-weary negligent state
All the joy has been sucked out
Is this just another dire bout

How does one pick up the trail
And find pleasure but not on a clothes rail
But to seek it where old memories lie
That remembers where you once cast your eye

And so it is to be
As I lie next to this tree
With borrowed hope
Just maybe I will cope

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Sometimes words don’t need fixing. They only need a place to land.

If you read this and feel the ache of it, you’ll know it’s not weakness speaking but survival. And perhaps, like me, you too have lived on borrowed hope.