to be hopeful

I don’t believe I can hope
if hope is a choice
because for now
it’s far from me

I debate the practice:
when does choosing hope
often enough
change reality?

or is it just a feeling—
a reaction to another
like pride swelling
in battles
I only think I’m winning?

is hope optimism—
the reframing of what is?
or nostalgia,
a worship of memories
I want to relive?

is hope redemption—
a balm for deep cuts:
years of failure
missed chances
loves I lost?

if hope is denial—
running away
pretending to be even a little okay

if it's willpower—
the pull-up, push-through,
a shut-my-eyes, screaming sprint
toward a wall
that never moves

if it’s any of these,
I can do without it
numb to whatever
weighted blanket cover up

yet

if hope is honesty—
to agree with that internal camaraderie

he says he won’t give up

in this way—
sure
hope is a choice
but not make believe

it’s a choice to listen
to that quiet wisdom
“I must persist”
courageously