A Pessimist's Lament

Leave me alone.
Why bother to build me up?
Does it give you pleasure
to watch me plunge
to my doom, anticipating
you will catch me?
Does it inflate your ego
when they puncture mine
and let the embittered blood spill out?

I'm so sick of hoping.
As if, someday
love will save me, and
friendship will cure me, and
supposed friends will listen,
instead of retreating into
excuse-ridden havens
whenever I need them most.

As if someone
will tolerate my humanity
while sentiment gushes from my lips
or flows from a pen:
My way of weeping.
Can anyone hear it?
Do I seem to shout in vain
and hammer soundlessly
at the adamant walls
of an invisible fortress?

Those who cannot heed me
like to imagine they understand.
They smirk with pity
and compose soliloquies on my behalf,
pretending to notice
my secret turmoil
while they stuff me into a cliché,
declaring confidently
that hope will set me free.

And finally
I realize the reason why
hope was in Pandora’s box:
It is a concealed menace
cloaked in the light of endless acclaim
by those who have never had to use it
as their disappointing last resort.

Oh optimist, glance past me
as if I am unfit for your
distinguished viewing,
and somehow find a way
to disregard the volumes of emotion
my chilly gray eyes display.
Continue on your sunlit journey
unconcerned.
Leave me alone.
I don’t care anymore.