Was is Hope

Scattered thoughts

in worry’s kettle

they boil, bubble

and test your mettle


Your day gets buried

by tomorrow

Deep distress

morphs into sorrow

Sorrow blooms

into despair

With eyes shut tight

you cut your hair

You live your days

in underwear

Stained coffee cups

are everywhere


The blinking light’s

unanswered calls

Just windows, ceiling,

and four walls

Kitchen trash

and rotting fruit

Dirty laundry

crumpled suit


Gripped by it

it sticks like tape

Thoughts are formed

and then take shape

So, you plan and plot

your great escape


Then . . .

The sun

Seeps through

the blinds one day

Her emergence

takes your breath away

You brush your teeth

You comb your hair

A welcome break

from your despair

You hope it lasts;

you pray it does

Then it dawns on you

That hope is “was”


Because . . .

“was” is change

always pending

A twisting road

unknown and bending

I was depressed

it went away

It stuck to me

but did not stay

It will return

of this I’m sure

Because was is was

it’s not a cure


Still,

keep “was” close

in your darkest hour

Because “was” is hope

and hope is power

Self Determination

“I’m tired.”

That was the note he left. A sticky note, actually. Pushed hard and pressed purposefully onto the upper-left corner of the corkboard in his home office, now spattered with brain matter and blood.

He woke that Tuesday, poured his coffee, sat on his back porch, and listened to mourning doves coo and the distant rumble of the early commute – trucks and cars, potholes and puddles. The wet hum and rattle of life.

He would miss his morning coffee, but not enough to stick around.

His kids were grown. As best he could, he’d advised them about life and how to get on in the world. So, in this regard, his “main” job was done.

He wasn’t all that unhappy or in any kind of pain, just immensely bored and intensely uninterested in the grind and pursuit, of what, he never entirely understood.

For the last several weeks, he found himself muttering, “What’s the point? Nothing changes. It’s all the same shit.”

What’s the point?

Nothing changes.

It’s all the same shit.

I suppose if one chews on those sentiments long enough, a sticky note on a corkboard and a gun in your mouth is where you end up.

He was missed dearly by his family, who stumbled numbly through life for the next two years.

For weeks after his demise, his faithful dog waited for him to come down the stairs and give a loving pat on the head. Whenever the house creaked, or the upstairs plumbing clanged, his dog would get up, walk to the stairs, and wait.

That was perhaps the saddest display of love and loyalty ever.