.

Hope and Wishes

The means by which we live
Are subtle and cramped with deceit.

Our methods of communication
And our little, lonely comforts
Are repetitive and personal.

We are incapable of real sharing,
Or if we are,
We do so with a grudge.

I lose faith when I see this world
For what some say it truly is.

Where are the heroes?
Where are the real love stories?
I lose hope in love and romance
And threaten never to read books again.
Is that not the only way
To stop my foolish hopes?

I can only conclude
That true love exists,
But one must search desperately for it.
Family is different;
It is constant, forgiving,
And provided for you.

I want my own true love,
Unshared by my siblings.

Who am I to ask so much?
Is it too much?

Still, my library is ever-expanding
And I dream on.

Hope and wishes are beyond my control.

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