Hope is a thing with feathers that flies.
That stays with you long after the light dies.
That was what I used to believe.
Until hope left, it did deceive.
Hope was a thing I used to know,
Seeing my hand reach out from a shadow,
So far away, that I could never reach it.
But suddenly it was here, so brightly lit.
Hope is the thing that hurts, is fake.
It drops you into the hell you make.
Because every time I dare to hope,
I'm hurt much worse than I could possibly cope.
