Hope—or is it delusion, you could say?

For the days we’ve lost, and the ones we’ve claimed,

We still chase peace, or success by name,

Wrapping it all in hope.

Nothing feels perfect—so let’s just hope.

“Man, I want this promotion, this success”—let’s just hope.

“I hope she loves me, like I love her so,

Or maybe he’ll come back”—we just hope.

Past the city lights, to the loneliest barn

In the greenest forest, we still hope.

They say hope keeps us alive,

But what of the steps we’ve taken?

The days we’ve worked ourselves raw,

The nights we were meant to smile in awe,

The moments we craved love like the love we gave,

Yet found none—just days to save.

The craziest days and the busiest nights—

I wonder which door to knock on,

To cry out, Oh God, I’m done with hope!

Done living in its shadow, chasing its ghost,

I want the life I deserve.

Not this.

Not now.

Not ever did I ask for this road.

Oh Lord, is it true? Are our stories prewritten?

If so, please tell me:

Have you torn out the pages?

Rewritten the ending?

Or must I wait to see the ink dry on this life’s final chapter?