Hopeless dreams,
shattered by realism.
You can call it pessimism.
You can call it negativity.
I call it realistic.

Years of oppression,
broke my once unbridled ambitions.
So much potential I had.
All those dreams and hopes,
buried away.
Coated with "It wouldn't have worked,"
making it easier to swallow down.

I admire those,
who still hold onto their aspirations.
I date those who dream,
clinging to their positivity.
Feeding off their hope,
I let them hope for me.
Feeding off their love,
I let them encourage me.
And, sometimes,
those brief flickers of hope,
those repressed ambitions,
shine from my pores.
And in that ethereal glow,
I am beautiful,
an image of who I once was.
I hold onto those moments.
I strive to keep them.

But, it always crawls back.
My father's voice inside my head.
I realize nothing will work out,
things will never be all right.

Because, in reality,
things will never be all right.