Reboiling Hope

Hope, Hope, Hope, Hope, I’ve said it too many times. It just sounds like a word that slip, slip, slapped out of my vocabulary.

The same way I stutter and twisty my way through the language of my identity
The way I think my words have melted me to build this
Night back up.
To reboil, Hope.

From scrambled, to soaring:

To catch the word at the bottom of the slope it fell from and have it re-sound again
Attach it on a hot air balloon, four letters on four corners and some hot glue,  to put steam back into the air and supernovas to count on again.
When the balloon runs cold, the pentameters and prologues in these four letters will take plight again, this time ten-fold into the star-crossed, eyes-wide and bleeding night, for the poets
The broken dominoes, the out of tune clocks, the off-key metronomes, the often solo and hopeless

These poets, keep rearranging H-O-P-E in different ways
So we can build this whole night time
Camp, cosmos, the micro godlessness on this stage
A pedestal of all the ways we sense out the flux of fuckery

Here we are, H-O-P-E ing
But sometimes this word, hops, repeats in my ear like a cockroach cassette, my friends, hoping, convincing me and themselves, that they are OK,
It plays like ambition looped with melted memories I’d rather forget
Because whenever I need to hold on to hope, it’s because I have little else and their poems on breaking are a music shelf.
Where I open up my hopes to the tune of my past regrets
Snare drums of doubt and threats
when I used to have aim, I now just have guilt,
and blame in the place of resilience

But, yet, there is something magical about spreading
The ounce of belief lit up in your chest,
Our fingers want to share our tiny atlas’ hope balls
So we write our own tiny worlds on a flash cards
And trade them
These are the stanzas to our secrets.
These metaphors we write at our weakest,
Ring like revenge, making art from our lonely lyric

But we all stay with the same thesis, rearranging H-O-P-E, spelling it differently so every ear can hear it in the sound they need it most. We write like ghosts in full spirit. Spreading our sonnets to the sky in our hot air.

When we write when we are defeated, that means we have not truly been.
Rewriting ‘Hope’ like the magician that shook off all the gold off of my tongue but I kept finding a new way to speak.
Maybe, my mouth is valueless, it stills stays like osmosis for promise.

When the moon comes out to howl at me
And the blue machete under under my eyelids starts to scream
And the voices around me grow loud like a wonder monsoon
I write like you all will hear me.
I listen back like I will thank you all.

my metaphors like a moon jungle
as wild as a glass animal
my urban religion and
my aspirations
get cliff-dived machete stomped
still leaving a salt tang of Hope, my nucleus
the hike, left in me, dead, end, hungry but still believing

I write
Like even if I can’t
Somebody will hear this future I describe like a disease, and they can follow it, like a robotic prayer in the distance
And as they hear me, and they move, and together as I speak and they sway we will find it in our bodies to take one step closer to an imaginary place that we move to
I keep looking at fireflies that have forgotten my fires
And tricycle tires that sometimes spin out of sync

Because I want to reboil this and get every last drop, telling you that when I bleed and you listen it saves me. When I stare off hunting for a day dream and you root for me, it saves me. When I tell you I keep hunting despite the bones on the ground and the meat under my feet that stays uneaten it saves me. Some see a poem, I see the only way to be. Some see a poem, I see the lonely innate beauty. Some see a poem, I see Jesus with robot teeth.

This is me telling you that the moon has scarcely bloomed for me this year
And it sounds like the all too familiar empty howl of hopelessness
But when you hear me, it’s like I can hear you calling back
Hope like a revenge. Hope like that revenge is your religion.
So I will write a poem an uproar
A revolution
I write my struggles like rebellion
A force to be reckoned with
I hang my poems for your starry starry whisper at night time and send them off in the hot
For you to tell me come daylight
Then for us to reboil for hope
One after another
Distilling our dictionaries to their core and answering the prayers
In each other’s soliloquies, speak, listen, step off the stage, repeat, repeat, repeat

Until resilience, then repeat, repeat, repeat, it sounds like a new language to learn from again

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