You kill me with your kind words;
Just put the dagger into my hands,
And let me pull it closer to my heart.
Stress is not the only silent killer;
There is another more sinister
For its large and empty promises.
But do the promises ring hollow?
The answer to that is the death blow:
No one can tell us, me least of all.
Yes, hope is the slow-killing illness
With which we both are infected–
We who sought it out and hold on to it.
And I won’t give it up–how can I
When it also keeps me alive and moving
Through the hardships and trials of life?
With what would you or I replace it:
Trading the dreams we’ve nurtured
For shallow, undesired normality?
So we hold on, though hope slays us,
To dreams we only see through a fog.
Tell me, what else can I do?