Hurts Like Hope


Opportunities do not knock.
They can't. No knuckles. 
Besides, there's hardly ever a door. 
Let's say there is one. Right in front of me. 
You see it? I know it's locked. 
Never will it turn for him, her, we or me.
I certainly don't have the key. 
And that leaves me where? Abandoned?
Left with what? Hope? 
Yes. Plenty.
I'm constantly constructing, shaping and swallowing a positive outlook.
Some type of spiritual magic causes this. 
I've told it to stop.
But my diseased feet still bubble warmth
which rises up my legs; skyward to my heart. 
It swells here, and it whispers. 
Hope orders my heart to tell my brain that anything is possible. 
The logic living in my mind understands that there are errors-faults, if you will-in the message. 
But because the brain more often than not blindly trusts the heart, he only absorbs the loyal faith she has placed in her words. 
That's what ticks me off.
That I have to shade in the oval for average family income.
I mean I've known nothing but school. Nine years. Four years. Most likely four more years. Then two. 
School at school.
School at home.
School at dinner.
School in my head, dreaming of school. 
And I love it.
Curiosity. The many processes of learning.
The potential patiently waiting.
All there is to explore, and the fact that my soul wishes to uncover all of it. 
I love all that.
What ticks me off is that that's not what matters most.
College is a foreign land where I'm from. To my family.
Drugs and drama. Love but pain.
But they're good people.
And the gratitude I feel because of them hurts like hope does.
I work hard to make them proud.
It's all a lie though.
There's no key, because there isn't a knob.
I couldn't stay long, but I've glanced at one of these doors.
I thought, Why does it look like that?
So hungry for green paper or plastic.
Then, it hit me: there's no shortage of doors and the opportunities are countless.
They're just not available to people like me; they're just not free.
Whether I like it or not I carry an abundance of hope.
Hope, that used to be what ticked me off.
Hope, that burned away the hate directed towards it, leaving behind piles of ashes of anguish.
Hope, that aimed that anger elsewhere.
Others like me (rich in places apparently not important while poor in the only area that is) we sit and we stand and we pace.
We are waiting outside these doors. 
Hand-in-hand with our dreams;
fueled by relentless imagination and that persistent hope.
I'll get to the point. What ticks me off?
I'll reveal in a quiet tone-not out of fear but sorrow-what tenaciously blocks each of our paths.
The only real barrier.
The master that-forced or willing-we all serve:


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