Hope? Poem by John W. McEwers

When a man loses everything he used to use to identify himself as a man, what is left?

I call him John.

He is full of hope until bursting,
even though his bubbles are burst.
He believes the future will be bright,
and it takes a lot of work to believe something
when it is so obviously wrong.

My collection of failures could fill the Louvre
and in that way I know that I'm am very great.

I must believe that I am better than I am,
because the truth has always been ugly
and maybe so have I,
but a delusion a day keeps the sadness away,
or so I tell myself.

If I'd lied to you as much as I lie to myself,
maybe you'd still love me.
Maybe not.
But at least then
you'd have been tricked into not loving not-me.

These are the hopes that keep me going,
and I have no idea how.