Desolate hope

When I sit down and write

I think of all the problems I could write about

All the woes and all the worries

 

But I choose not to indulge

In what ultimately traps me

For inside me lies a glimmer of hope, or perhaps ignorance

That maybe all these problems will die in neglect should I not face them

 

Should they face the loneliness that consumes me

They would cower and wither

Oh so I hope

 

But it is crystal clear that they shall haunt me yet another day

And when this happens I sit down and write

But I write about a bed of roses instead

 

I realize not that each rose has thorns

And thus hurt myself in my blindness

And this adds to my woes and worries

That I choose not to write about as I sit down

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