If hope is a thing with wings, then depression carries
stones.
You think you can outrun, dodge, throw the aim and escape,
But the stones are tethered to ankles,
Each movement, each attempt, hits yourself,
The aim is always true.
If hope is a thing with wings, anger has a net.
Weighing down any future or dream,
You find yourself looking into a broken world,
Only parts of a whole, and every part is lined with darkness,
An obstructed view.
If hope is a thing with wings, then I am a girl with a
broken heart.
Stuck here in my cage, blood boiling, eyes crusted with salt.
I hurt but have no wounds, I am trapped while I hold the
key.
There is no escaping who I am inside.
No matter how far I run, or fight, or hide.
I have no wings; I have no freedom.
I have no hope.
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