Poemetry by T.A. Barnhart


there are troubling signs
that the things
i have long depended on
for the soft reassurance
that my life
is as bad
as i fear
it must be,
these touchstones of
anxiety and unfounded despair
are lies.
long dark years
i have followed the guidance
of thoughts and beliefs
i trusted to keep me safe,
even if alone and unhappy;
it seems
i may have been
it could be
that hope
is not a nasty trick
of those kids
in seventh grade
or one last betrayal
by long-dead parents.
hope may be,
not a way to prove
my essential worthlessness
as a human being,
something i now see
i never was able
to prove beyond doubt,
but, instead,
hope may be
a fact of my life
i have no choice
but to accept
as helplessly
as i accept
my next breath.

┬ęTA Barnhart May 2, 2020