Untitled #17

Hope is the
Rawest kind of pain,
It eats away at you slowly –
Slowly.
Hope watches you rot inside out
Like a corpse
And laughs in your face,
A cruel laugh that echoes
Down stone hallways of spiteful silence.
Hope doesn’t keep you warm,
Offer comfort,
Provide happiness.
Hope is just a lie
A masked beast, the final evil
Kept in a box
Of your own pathetic weakness
Until it has you hung, drawn and quartered
By your own foolish belief,
That things might be different.

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