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hoplessness

Hopelessness is the color of a midnight black vehicle keeping a love captive;
it sounds like a crack of an unblemished heart, now in two pieces
and tastes like a thick, bitter cough syrup gagging a throat.
It smells like choking exhaust filling up lungs;
it looks like memories and happiness withdrawing on a winding dusty trail;
it makes me feel empty like wind blasting into a newly created wound.

Hopelessness is the color of a dark, rainy night on the street;
it sounds like the cruel taunting of cars driving to their safe homes
and tastes like acid of throwing up nothing.
It smells like a rancid dumpster on Thursday, reeking of Monday’s special
Hopelessness looks like rich people walking, not having to wonder
what dumpster
or box to crawl into.
It makes me feel like an unwanted and vulnerable city rat.

Hopelessness is the color of the wrong end of a leather belt magically leaving red marks;
it sounds like screams and whimpers of a small child as the mother stands back watching;
it tastes like the tears of another belt, another frying pan, and another scar
and smells like the musty sweat of a never-forgiven loved one
Hopelessness looks through swollen, teary eyes at an angry stepfather.
Hopelessness makes me feel worthless, like the penny on a city street.

Hopelessness is, even more than pain, the one thing that truly crushes the soul.





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