I have to go
or move
or get up
or, if I don’t
I might fall deeper.

Understand?

I have been to the point where
I had to ask myself,
What now?
What do I do?
What’s gonna happen?
Or,
What’s next?

1)

I think of little kids
and the games they play
or little girls
in their little dresses,
or young boys on the playground
and how
that used to be me, a long, long time ago.

I think about kids on swings
or seesaws and how they dream, or laugh
or wait for the final bell to ring
and summer can take place.

I suppose this one is not for everybody.
Then again, that’s the thing about art
or maybe this is more about me,
or subjectively,
I suppose this is how it goes with the written word.
When it comes to the word,
anything and everything can be relative
and to me, or to some
I have come to realize that in my desire to reveal
or to expose a need, a thought, a want, or hope
and to honor the drive within my heart;
I have to come here—as in right here,
to open up
and let myself go.

There was a time, which I recall
long ago, when the summer came
and we were young
and the fireworks took over the sky.

I talk about this often
when the nostalgia kicks up.
I think about the innocence of youth
or the feel of dipping your toes
in a pool of cold water, or too cold,
in fact and during a hot morning.

1)

This is not just about hope. 
This is about belief
But more
This is about those who push us
or support us
and this about the difference between
those who lead us to believe
and those who lead us to doubt.

I used to hope for a chance
or a shot
or I’d look for an open window
or some kind of opportunity
but then again, I used to believe
that no one would ever
take a chance on me
or that no one would ever give me a shot
which was worthwhile.

Is there any hope in pain?
Or is pain part of hope?
And perhaps both are true
or interchangeable
and perhaps pain is part of learning
or understanding
and perhaps pain is part of our awakening
to which, we wake up
and we learn that we have to change,
or if nothing else,
we have to go about our dreams
a different way.

I can say this is an ode to those
who put me down
or to those who told me
don’t even think about it
or that as hard as I try
I’d be fortunate to be average
or to be anything special;
I’d be lucky because
either I was not from their club
or tribe
or that someone who looks
like “me” or speaks the way I do,
with a New York accent, somewhat
obvious and a so-called “way”
about me, I remember being told
that perhaps, at best,
I’d be more suitable for jails . . .

And so goes the delusions of youth
or the delusions of grandeur
and so goes the world as we knew
or the way that we saw it when, say,
we thought that everything
could be answered by a long night out
with friends . . .
or like it was during the summer nights
down by the water—out until the dawn came
and ah, yes,
it was good to be young and hopeful
or careless or maybe
we were still young enough
to be carefree
because life hadn’t picked up speed
yet.

There is only one youth
and yes, life has a way
of changing and redirecting us
or better yet,
life has a way of correcting us
and teaching us different steps.

Life has a way of changing the way
we think or speak,
and then, somehow,
we come full circle
or we revert to who we were
or where we’ve come from.

What inspires hope?
Is it life?
Is it someone or something
that creates or acts like a seed,
and then triggers a thought . . .
or is it a connection
which somehow,
changes us for either the better
or worse?

Is the inspiration of hope
something that brings a spark
or starts the fire inside,
or is hope the drive that keeps us alive
and despite the ugly truths,
somehow, we see life in a different way
and should this be true,
is hope the light that degrades the darkness
and removes the blindness
to eye, which can otherwise see . . .
is that it?