#poems about hope

[frogeyedape]

May I present a different setup for the poem?

Hope is a weapon, hope is a skill

Hope is a plant you can care for or kill

Hope is a discipline, something you choose

Hard to stop looking for, easy to lose

Hope isn't something to have or to take

If you can't find it, it's something you make

Make it from willpower, make it from spite

Learn how to weaponize love in a fight

Hope is a shield and a thing to defend

End in itself, and means to an end.

hope is a skill

[hrokkall]

"Sad Cat Poem" by Spencer Madsen

[mgdlnkrn]

Hope

I never have enough hope to really be optimistic, but always just enough to hold onto dying stars and burn myself with them.

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

arches and light: the fiction of john gardner (1983) - david cowart

"one decade at freddy's" !!!!!

[inkskinned]

"it's so embarrassing you like that popular thing" "oh ew that geeky/strange thing is so cringe lol" "oh it's kind of weird you get excited about that harmless shit"

dude i love how ironic and jaded you are and that's so cool and sexy of you. and i am so so glad to tell you - you won!! we all had a meeting and we decided that you won, and we are writing your name on the inside of a burger king crown. the marker smeared, sorry, but we knew any form of real effort is ugly to you. but anyway. congrats! you are officially the coolest, most ironic, most jaded person in-the-world-right-now. we would throw you a party but you would think it was totally boring - and besides, we're weird so we wouldn't have been coming. we would have brought our love of beetles and of baking and of little canapes. we would have brought our artsy videogames and pages of writing. we would have written a poem with you, our hands covered in ink, and spread out a canvas to dance on, the night so lurid and pink.

but do not worry. we will not throw the party. we will just get you a ringlight and that crown i mentioned. it is a nice crown, except for where one of us dropped it.

the vote was a really hard one because we had so many cool ironic people to pick off the shelves. all of you have hands that rot fruit, how strange is that - you can't look at something without destroying it for other people. you like it when you can squeeze a person into a pinpoint - all us small ones scampering our little feet around our ugly joys. the vote was also a hard one because we kept our voices down because you don't like it when we talk too loud. you were on your phone at the time, talking to people other than us. you are a ghoul of every moment - half in, half out, you resent us for being here without shame or embarrassment.

so good news! we have invented an island for people like you. you get to go there and speak into the air things like if you still like watching harmless twitch streamers in 2023 you're fucking boring. you will say things like liveplay podcasts are fucking ugly and it's kind of awkward they try to make everything gay. on the island we made you, all of your words will have weight. they will form in the air like icicles, large white behemoth letters that will crumple in anvils around your feet. maybe we will send someone there once in a while to sweep, but honestly you might be there for a while, alone, waiting. we are busy being outside looking for mushrooms and flapping our hands and humming. we are busy kicking our little heels while we watch cringey tv. we are busy - sorry! as an apology, we have pre-filled the island with every bland, mediocre, unscented thing we could find. the island has the texture of american cheese. the island has an ocean that never gets angry. the island is perfect for you, trust me. you will be so happy there - as happy as you can be, ironically.

we want to say we are sorry for doing harmless things that you find annoying, childish, or unappealing - but we are not sorry. we thought we could help you, because we don't mind laughing at ourselves, but it turns out you are allergic to color and noise and atmosphere, so this is the best that we can do for now. we are all making a big shirt that says i voted in the ironic monarchy. we got you one that is just a fast fashion buttondown. i am so excited for you and this island and the big life you have won. you have a cool jaded grey life and miles of irony to roam. i love you! be well.

now leave us alone.

[butw0rldenough]

— Mary Oliver, Felicity

[welcometogrouchland]

I understand that literature nerd Jason Todd is kind of overblown in fanon compared to it's actual presence in canon (a few issues during his pre (and post?)crisis Robin tenure that highlight it) BUT consider that I think it's hilarious if the unhinged gun toting criminal has strong opinions on poetry

[wwxsflutesolo]

"Chuuya. Come to your senses. Our fate will not end in a place like this. Because you and I are destined to—"

@/kedreeva// ernest hemingway - the old man and the sea// death cab for cutie - summer years// unknown// unknown// lidia yuknavitch - the chronology of water: a memoir// richard siken - saying your names// taylor swift - gorgeous// unknown// victor hugo - les miserables// jeanette winterson - lighthousekeeping// sylvia Plath - lady lazarus// margaret atwood - power politics// tory adkisson - Anecdote of the Pig//richard siken - planet of love, wishbone// ethel cain - hard times// margaret atwood - variations on the word love

[casualavocados]

You know what's out there? A series of higher tones. It's arranged by nature. It's governed by the laws of physics of the whole universe. It's an overtone, it's an energy, it's a wavelength. And if you're not riding it, good lordy, you'll never hear it.

AUGUST RUSH (2007) dir. Kirsten Sheriden

[kiisuuumii]

@kiisuuumii (songbird) [for anon]

[theyhitthepentagon]

remembering my friends from middle school

[sexy-sapphic-sorcerer]

Recall the tale of Icarus.

Choose to be Icarus.

Linda K. Hughes, Text and Subtext in "Merlin and the Gleam", p.166 /// Alfred Tennyson, Merlin and the Gleam /// BBC Merlin, The Last Dragonlord (2x13) /// Natalie Wee, Patroclus Dreaming /// Hozier, I, Carrion (Icarian) /// BBC Merlin, The Wicked Day (4x03) /// Hozier /// Natalie Wee /// BBC Merlin, The Disir (5x05) /// Alfred Tennyson /// Hozier /// BBC Merlin, The Diamond of the Day: Part 2 (5x13) /// Natalie Wee /// Alfred Tennyson, The Passing of Arthur /// BBC Merlin, The Diamond of the Day: Part 2 (5x13) /// Hozier /// Alfred Tennyson /// Natalie Wee

[hrokkall]

Mama gave me music lessons,

now I play the saddest songs

[moralcandy]

fifteen things that don't come back, by charlie slimecicle:

number one. the paper airplane you and your daughter throw at your husband while his back is turned in the kitchen, the two of you hiding behind the counter as you snicker quietly when he stops humming and yelps a curse as he turns around with a faux angry expression and a poorly-hidden smile.

number two. the glass your daughter broke trying to grab it from the cabinet on her tippy-toes. you didn't look over until you heard the glass shatter against the kitchen floor, too preoccupied with grabbing the jug of cold orange juice from the fridge to notice until it was too late. golden, afternoon sunlight shone warmly on the both of you from the open window as you swept it up while she stood to the side with a sheepish expression.

number three. your husband's soft shirt he let you borrow when you said you couldn't find your own but really you just quickly shoved yours under the bed when he wasn't looking. you absently noted that it smelled like him. your lips curved into a slight smile without input. your foot shoved your shirt under the bed a little bit farther.

number four. the pictures you took of your daughter and niece, hugging eachother as they posed for the camera, the photo incinerated into ash when you blew up your house. you frantically dug through your daughter's chest afterwards, soot covering your hands as you searched for the photograph. you did not find it.

number five. your niece.

number six. the feeling of a cold glass of wine held tipsily in your hand, the waterdrop of condensation slipping down the glass at the same pace your tears did down your cheeks. you downed the alcohol until there was nothing left except a burning feeling and a lump in your throat. the bartender did not give you another drink.

number seven. your friend, the one who used to laugh hysterically with you as he wrapped his arm around your shoulders before he began to scream at you while he wrapped his hands around your neck. he pushed you into the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in your mouth and the feeling of wet dirt on your skin as you absently question whether the water dripping on your face was the rain or the tears slipping down your friend's face. you know that was the funeral of your children, but you think both of the real 'you's died that day, too.

number eight. the warm, rumbling feeling of laughter in your chest as a smile hurts your cheeks, the sensation long gone. your mouth, for a moment, twitches into a small smile at the memory of the feeling.

number nine. the feeling of hands on your own, your husband's warm hands intertwined with yours as your cold, golden rings clink against eachother. your daughter's tiny hand clasped around yours as she leads you to a butterfly she found, grass brushing your ankles as you walk.

ten. the sound of your daughter's amused laughter, snorts interrupting occasionally. her head leans back as she giggles, her eyes scrunched up in happiness.

eleven. the sound of your husband's soothing voice, lilting with fondness as he looks at you. a smile absently crosses his face as he speaks, audible in his voice. you always remember smiling back.

twelve. your golden wedding band your husband lovingly slipped onto your ring finger so long ago, the one you furiously tossed into a dusty corner with particularily bad aim. you blame the poor aim on the tears blurring your vision, but it could've been the alcohol, really.

thirteen. your husband. you try to go to sleep in the center of your bed now, knowing that he won't be there. when you wake up, you always find yourself on the left side of the bed, as if you've moved in your sleep to accommodate someone. you scowl and think that your asleep self should stop being so stupid. ..you make the bed just in case he really does decide to come back.

fourteen. your daughter. whenever you make yourself breakfast now, you keep accidentally making two bowls, the muscle memory automatic, familiar, and no longer needed. you sit down at the table and set the bowls and begin to eat, but you always end up just stirring the cereal with your spoon as you stare at the untouched bowl across from you. you always end up throwing them both away. without your input, a frown tugs slightly at your lips as your pour out the second bowl but you know that nobody else was even here to eat it anyway. your eyes burn.

fifteen. your daughter, the one you know isn't the real one. sometimes you walk down those train tracks where you found her, hoping she'll be here this time. she never is. ..you still keep checking, just in case.

[reallybadblackoutpoems]

john bull's other island and major barbara (1907) - george bernard shaw

"dont be scraed"

[fearandhatred]

ok so what if the reason crowley likes watching aziraphale eat is because nothing he does for himself can give him back the pleasure he felt when creating his stars, so the next closest feeling to that is through experiencing someone else's greatest pleasures. but it will never be enough

text below the cut

hunger is a funny thing; multifaceted, duplicitous there's a hunger to give and a hunger to take the hunger of passion and the hunger of greed

i knew only of the first type of hunger, before time, before sorrow back when there was just the explosions of supernovas, the heat of the cosmos, the planets in my grasp and the world at my feet back when i was the barycenter of the universe and all my steps created consecrated ground the souls at my tabernacled fingertips, helpless, hopeless, defenceless the power to do whatever i wanted to them and choosing only kindness

that was before i knew how it feels to have it all stripped away to go from being larger than life to living in it; from creating to the realisation of having been created, at the mercy of things of my own design to be helpless, hopeless, defenceless, in a world that was never kind to me

that was before i knew the agony of hunger pangs, bone deep and spiritual that carved out my marrows, left me substanceless and corrosive everywhere and nowhere, that nothing i did could satiate that nothing can satiate but grace

there's a hunger to give and a hunger to take and the damned have nothing left to give

but you do.

you take and you take and you take, never left wanting a taking borne not from desperate emptiness, for once, but one of indulgence you gorge yourself with selfish pleasure, glut yourself with food unneeded fulfilment, hunger stacked upon already-there satisfaction and in taking, so also do you give

with each fistful you grabbed of that ox rib i could imagine snatching my stars out of the sky pressing them down between my palms, permanent claiming marks seared into my hands i imagined swallowing them down, eruptions of light and neutrons on my tongue with each sip you take of wine i imagine myself sucking in the universe galaxies and planets orbiting in my stomach, the centre of the world's gravity i imagine breathing in liquid life, the warmth of existence stinging my throat

and for the first time, my hunger is sated by watching you sate yours for now, it's enough for me to just watch

so establish this covenant with me: take your fill of animals, of drink, of everything within reach stuff your heart full, consume the world raw, and i'll do the same with my eyes but after that, tear the flesh off my frame, gnaw on my hollow bones strip me of the little i'm still worth, leave me bare and stranded feast on my body, broken for you do this in remembrance of me, and maybe i'll do the same

because that hunger of creation i can never get back, no matter how much i try so now i just gorge myself on you