The Futile Pursuit of Hope

I can’t keep throwing books out
just because I’ve lost patience with words,
even the ones meant to console
my wintering spirit;
there is little consolation these days
where hope is a burden of expectations
I want to stab violently with a fork
that instead finds its way into another
slice of cake I keep hidden beneath my bed,
its sweet, sweet comfort
savored between the puzzle of dreams
that have so much meaning,
and so many layers,
one might think I was fucking Jung,
a rabid affair that keeps me trapped
in this godforsaken space
analyzing and processing
analyzing and processing
analyzing and processing
still here again always…
a bonfire stack of books by the door
my Plan B should the promises keep failing.