Oh so Pathetic, I Mean, Poetic.

I am a pathetic little creature, I know.

What am I thinking.
besides the impossible.
Me thinking I could do something right.
Blasphemy.
Hope is a dull machete cutting through the jungle of realism.
Hope has done nothing but kill me from the inside.
I hate to think this of my only comfort,
the only reason I have to hold on.
One reason I have waited so long.
Hope.
It will be far too tedious to explain what I am hoping for.
All you need to assume is to know this:
in me,
the heart is the least patient of muscles.
And so much pain has come from following this
Red
Repulsive
Pulsating
Blob
of a thing.
Yet I give it my all.
My heart, once my strongest ally,
now grows weak with hopelessness.
I need this to live...
Am I referring to my heart?
Who knows.
I deeply
deeply
despise feeling this way.
Save me, please.
You don't begin to fathom what you are to me.
really, you don't.
For the most part,
I don't begin to fathom what you are to me either.
I am pathetic,
In more ways than one.
You made me this way.
You gave me the hope that is dying now,
ironically.
I have this dreadful feeling,
that what I hope for,
will be fake or forever lost.
I want neither.
I am so confused.
Give up hope, risk missing the chance I have waited so long for,
or,
hope until my last breath escape my lungs.